From Paris to Yorkshire
by Countess of Cobert
Summary: A pre-canon Cobert story with a twist. Robert and Cora meet in Paris before the London season, what happens in the famous city of love and how does their relationship evolve as they arrive in England? Will love conquer all, or will money and status get in the way? High T rating for the first chapter.
1. Chapter 1

_So,_ _I_ _start with major apologies, because_ _I_ _know this is much later than_ _I_ _promised and_ _I_ _have no excuse really -_ _just_ _that life got in the way. The_ _announcement_ _of the film has made me_ _realise_ _its time to publish what_ _I_ _have of this story though, one bit at a time, in the hoe_ _that posting it will make me finish it off. I think I am still five or six (maybe more) chapters from the end but who knows. A review, would of course make my day!_

 _To zaibi12, I thank you for waiting for this, and reading it and being lovely about it._

 _I dedicate this to sinceyoufellinlovewithme, not only because she has read the first few chapters for me and corrected my errors, but because she has crossed hurdles in the last year greater than I hope to jump in a lifetime, and certainly greater than even the ones Cobert are about to face in this._

* * *

 **From Paris to Yorkshire**

 **Chapter 1- February 1888**

He splays his fingers on his knee, searching out the loose thread his valet had offered to mend. He'd refused politely, just as he had been brought up to do, because it didn't matter. The thread was a symbol of just how much his life was unravelling. Just like the cotton which had been jarred from its place by his not being careful, he was being removed from the delights of touring Europe (not that he had actually gone to that many places) at the call of his father, more specifically the call of his father's diminishing bank balance. The telegram had been simple: return to London and marry a rich young lady.

Do his duty.

That was all he was really being asked. He had known for some years now the expectation laid at his door. His father had not married as prudently as he could have, resulting from an infatuation, and Robert had known for years the impact of this upon him was two-fold, his marriage had to bring as much money as he could find and a woman that could withstand his mother. The problem was Robert craved for something that was neither of these things. For him, and his parents called him 'terribly young and naïve' because of it, he wanted a companion in life. Downton is a large and daunting house that could easily leave a man feeling lonely, and the pressure of maintaining the estate and giving the villagers and tenants what they deserved was a prospect that he would rather not face with nobody to turn to. He wanted a wife, who unlike his own mother, cared more for the village and people whose livelihoods depended on him than one who cared for nothing but the next ball or dinner menu. He had never found a woman that fitted these criteria although to his parents' chagrin he had let many of their ideal rich and titled ladies slip by.

He was posed with a more immediate annoyance presently though, that had nothing to do with the fluttering fans and perfumed hair that were to greet him in London. It had much more to do with his having to abandon Paris in just over a month.

This is his second trip to Europe, and had lasted the last six months, had been in the company of his cousin James. It had all been arranged by his father which, after being summoned to his duty in less than a month, had suddenly fallen into perspective.

James had never been much like Robert; he didn't have a kind bone in his body and not a thought passed through his head that wasn't about himself. Thus, it came as little surprise to anyone that knew him, that the second his wife had given birth to a baby boy last August he was back on the continent, enjoying all the 'pleasures it has to offer.' The point being (which was now obvious) to educate his younger, less experienced cousin, in the ways of the world to prepare him for marriage. The fact Robert saw nothing right, or fair, in exerting himself on women for his own pleasure, had not stopped his cousin trying to persuade him that he should enjoy himself now 'before the marriage bed ties you to a woman who will not understand.' Robert had given in, but not to the extent his cousin would have liked.

His return to Paris this week, after many weeks in Berlin and Vienna, had enabled him to return to the one woman with whom he had felt comfortable the last few months; the only women (of a mere three) with whom he had lain more than once. The fact he had left James in Vienna with a bar maid he was 'absolutely not leaving' was an added bonus.

It wasn't that he loved Clarisse, or even overly desired her, but she was understanding and willing to listen to his droning on about his cousin or his parents with little complaint. Their meetings had not been completely driven by physical desires but more based on a mutual respect. He had met her when he had attended the theatre back in September, now five months ago, when he had booked a ticket at the small, local theatre near his hotel. She was an actress and as such he should have guessed that his going backstage following the performance to congratulate her (it was one of the best shows he had seen in sometime) would give the wrong impression. The result had been rather comical and after explaining his woes to her on an occasion three nights later she had offered to 'help him understand the failings of all British men and show him what women really wanted.' She had taken no money from him, despite his constant insistence. She had explained his being with her was advantageous because it forced other, more demanding men, away and meant she didn't have to pretend to want a man just because he wanted her; it turned out she was not a fan of the other half of her job despite its necessity if she was to survive (her pay was not nearly enough to live on). As Robert was not content taking advantage of any woman they reached a mutual pleasure in each other's company that was not solely based on sex. Robert learnt much of himself, it is true, but he also learnt much of a woman's more complex being. What he had known deep down all his life was put into reality, a woman has feelings and it was wrong to overlook them.

He wouldn't deny that his choice to return to Clarisse for his last month abroad was not completely free from his baser desires; the opportunity of a month to lie with her and allow himself, for the last time for perhaps the rest of his life, to have exactly what he wanted and needed was not an opportunity he was going to give up. He had liked to think, as he had been travelling back, that there was more to it than that, that maybe he wasn't quite so male in his instincts. That, perhaps, he wanted her familiar company and to share his worries with someone who listened even if they didn't understand.

However, the truth of the matter was becoming far more apparent as the last few lines of the opera echo around the hushed theatre. The more he watches her chest rise and fall as she sings and he studies the way her dress clings around her curves, the redness of her lips contrasting to her white teeth, the more memories from those months together before Christmas spring about his head and the greater the tightness in his groin. Her hair is piled and pinned to her head in a way that he knows will be a delight to take down one pin at a time, and watch as it cascades over her shoulders. He had done that once back in the autumn and had been mesmerised by the way the blonde ringlets danced on her pink nipples. He would have put these incensed feelings down to his being without any fulfilment of his desires for some months (as had been the eventual reason he had visited a woman in Berlin back in December after weeks of being there) but before he had left Vienna, the day before the telegram arrived, he had bedded a woman (the third of his trip).

No, this wasn't even about Clarisse, this was about being in control of something.

Anything.

And Clarisse he could control. He knew enough of her to know that she would let him do whatever he wanted. She would know he wasn't being deliberately harsh or wanting, but that his world was crumbling around him and he needed something to be his alone. He wonders if this was what drove other men all the time, the harsh reasoning of wanting to feel completely in control. It was new to him, at least in its relation to his baser desires, but he figured it was probably this tendency that got men the name of being demanding and forthright in bed. Certainly, he knew some friends who had married and been completely dumbfounded by how terrified their mothers-in-law had made their brides. Those stories and mothers' advice didn't exist from nowhere, it wasn't necessarily based on their own experiences, but Robert had listened to many of his friends explain that their wives had been told to 'prepare for the worst.' He knows instinctively the burning racing through him at this minute is his worst, but the realisation doesn't make him stop.

He is stood before the velvet curtain is down, his blood already pounding at the anticipation of what is to come. He withdraws from the scene around him, the babble of the French language and the laughs of the women as they waft their fans and realign their hair. He hears English too, lower voices (less excitable than the French) mixed within. He doesn't turn to look at anyone, to check he doesn't know any of them, and instead crosses the distance of the foyer, his thoughts consumed in his memories of Clarisse.

He remembers the taste of her skin beneath his lips, the curves of her collarbone and throat, the way she would lift her body into him at his touch. He knew he needed to feel that, not so much for how much he needed the physical element, but because those movements, her body reacting to his, will make him feel completely in control.

It takes him longer then he would like to cross the room, the volume of ladies' skirts hindering his passage. Once young lady looks up at him with bright blue eyes as he almost topples her in his haste. He apologises and thinks he catches the beginnings of a blush, but he doesn't look back, women blushed and fluttered at him all the time, besides, she was probably French. Eventually, he makes it to his destination and ducks inside the door that reads, 'dans les coulisses'- backstage.

The corridor always stank of sweat and perfumes and it was always far too hot. But Robert liked it, for him it smelt of their hard work, their efforts, and he wished that he had more purpose in his life, that he didn't just feel as though he was waiting for his father to die so that he could take on the responsibilities of an estate. He loved Downton very much, it was his home. But he felt keenly the duties to his tenants and villagers in a way he didn't think his father did. His father badgered on about profit and investments and this that and the other, but Robert saw the common pattern easily enough, everything was for Lord Grantham, not the people who slaved so hard in the fields. Robert wanted to be the ambassador for those people, and to help them as much as he could. He couldn't do that with his father alive, every time he brought it up, his father laughed. Therefore, he was going to have to employ these methods when his father was gone from the world, at the same time as negotiating whatever mess his father had left behind and his own life. He was going to be quite alone. Yet, nobody could seem to see his point that by having a sensible and intelligent wife, whom he respected, and goodness help him, maybe even loved, those pressures would be relieved by at least one element of his life being right. But no, duty called. Or at least, it did in a month's time. Now, now is his time. Downton was for him to worry about in a month, tonight he could focus on more pleasurable exploits.

Clarisse.

The heat prickles at him, an omen of what passion will succumb to his touch, teasing him as it sticks to his forehead. He catches the scent of her perfume as he nears the individual dressing rooms and his groin tightens at the remembrance of it filling his nostrils in a far more intimate setting.

Ladders rest haphazardly against the reverse of the stage set, with men perched on them resetting the various pulley systems for tomorrow's performance. This side of the set was currently being painted for the next production the theatre was running, no doubt Clarisse was already rehearsing her lines for that one. There was some type of landscape scene being painted onto the main back panel, with vast autumnal trees and a path reaching somewhere into the distance.

He shuffles his way between the people scurrying about, carrying chairs and other props. He ducks out the way of an angry Frenchman carrying a paint pot and exclaiming to one of the actors as he goes, obviously, he wasn't happy about some task he had been summoned to. One of the other actress' races down the corridor with a young man trailing at her heels, her laugh filling the narrow passage a second later as they find their destination. Robert feels a slight twinge at the realisation the gentleman was one he had seen with the young lady before, clearly, they are a couple, perhaps even married. They were happy, and content, everything he wanted but wasn't going to get from his life.

He slips down the passage that is perpendicular to the one he is currently walking and finds the darker scene more reflective of his mood. His head begins to swim with the anticipation that is to come and the skin on his back, that is so tightly hidden beneath his dinner jacket and shirt, becomes slightly sticky so he loosens his neck tie slightly to relieve the tension.

The door at the end of the corridor is open, that was how she left it while she waited for potential 'company.' She would take them to her flat across the street but Robert was not intending on making this any longer than it needed to be, not tonight. He didn't want a drink with her, or to read her lines with her. All he wanted was her to do as he wanted. The closer he got to her the more the desire stirred in his belly. He didn't care that it was the opposite of what Clarisse had told him all those months ago, about putting someone else above his own desires. She isn't his wife; he might never see her again. It mattered little how she felt, because nothing could be a worse feeling than knowing you are heading for a life that has been created for you by society and your parents, in which your own wishes are to be cast aside indefinitely for this duty.

He knocks on the door despite it being ajar. He wonders whether he should have brought flowers but the thought vanishes along with his composure when the door is opened by a man. It didn't surprise him particularly; it was unlikely he was the only man in the audience tonight who wasn't just attending for the show. The gentleman speaks with a fluent French accent, and Robert having had been taught enough to understand the basics, knows that he states, more calmly than he would have done, that the lady is with him.

What this gentleman does not bargain on, but Robert does, is that Clarisse always likes to see whoever choses to knock at her door. She had explained to him that people from other theatres often offered jobs this way, and she was holding out hope that might happen to her one day, she wasn't living a life where she could afford to turn everyone away. Sure enough, her head pokes around the frame and her jade green eyes sparkle at him.

"Robert, how lovely to see you." She steps outside the door, with a rushed statement in French to her companion, and shuts it behind her. She eyes him with a raised brow when he says nothing. The truth was he didn't feel capable of finding words when all he wants to do is push her back into the doorframe and make her react to him. Never in his twenty years of existence had he felt any emotion so fierce as the one he felt now. His anger, and probably panic (although that nestled deeper within him) for the next months of his life are all consuming. The only feeling he knows that was more overpowering is to have Clarisse, whatever happened he needed that tonight. "I guess you being here does not mean good things? You have heard from your father?" Her English was excellent, but what made it far more appealing was her accent, he knew how it murmured his name at the height of her undoing. The mere echo in his mind of that sound makes his trousers tighten a little more and he wonders how long it will be until he wasn't the only one aware of his predicament. "Come with me, he will give up and leave if I don't return."

She takes his hand and pulls him back in the direction he came. He lets her lead, quite content to watch the swing of her hips, which she certainly exaggerates for him, as they walk. The sequins on her dress look as though they will be uncomfortable against his skin but he is well aware that the flesh that rests below is far softer.

She pushes a door open and they enter a dark room. Before the door they enter through shuts, he can work out that it is a store room, a pile of boxes packed along the back wall and one small settee against another wall. When the door swings shut behind him he loses sight of everything, her hand the only thing giving him any kind of orientation.

He disliked the dark, one too many pranks by Rosamund when he was a little boy had truly put him off and since then he had always liked the comfort of a fire burning in his room to break up the monotonous black that descended at night. Tonight, the dark is nothing. Insignificant, compared to the hatred that is pumping in his blood for the parents who should be putting his wishes before anything, but weren't.

It is easy enough to find her face, her breathing is deep just in front of him. The second his hand makes contact with her neck and chin she drops his other hand and dances her fingers across his trouser front. He sucks a whistling breath between his lips.

"My, my you are wound up tonight, Lord Downton." He briefly wonders if she uses his title to provoke him but he doesn't have time to reason out the arguments. If she had, it does the trick, his anger flares in his head and his muscles relax before tensing instinctively, shoving her hard in the direction of the settee.

* * *

Cora shoves her hands deeper into the muff, splaying her fingers she can feel the strands of fur tickling between her fingers. She has the hood of her coat pulled up over her head, to keep her from the cold. She had left her hat in her room, without her maid she couldn't fasten it securely herself. There was no way she was going to ask Emma to dress her at this time in the morning. She didn't doubt that Emma wouldn't tell anyone Miss Levinson had taken a walk alone in the early hours of the morning, but someone was sure to find out somehow and Cora was determined that the only quiet time of her existence wasn't going to be taken away from her. Not when her parents had taken everything else.

She loved learning, the lessons with her governess and the tutor her father had hired, he was determined she was going to be more intelligent than the average young lady. He had always told her he wanted her to learn more than just how to dance, sew and organise staff. She had to all intents and purposes been given a boy's education but at home rather than school. History and art had been her favourites, particularly linking the history with the art. Cora wanted nothing more than to be shipped back across the ocean and have more of those lessons. The ones her mother stipulated (drawing and dancing) were done too, of course, but her father had always been good enough to keep them to a minimum. Yet now, her father seemed to have completely forgotten the sensible young woman he had wanted to make her into and instead was allowing her mother to drag her halfway around the world to do nothing less than dancing and flirting in order to gain herself a husband.

An English husband. Preferably titled and rich.

These early morning walks were the last thing she had left of herself and she had been making the most of them while she was in Paris. She was well aware upon arriving in London there would be many more people watching her and she wouldn't get away with it so easily.

Each day she walked somewhere she had seen on her trip so far, taking the time in the half-light of the rising sun to study the architecture of the buildings her mother had not let her look at when they had passed.

She would watch the French going about their morning activities and feel nothing but envy at them having a purpose, however small. They each had a role in the society, or on a smaller scale within their household. Cora didn't know what it felt like to have that purpose. She had always seen herself defying her mother and pursuing the studies she loved so much to teach others. She had always supposed her father would back her decision. Yet, she had been let down. It was becoming abundantly clear that her father's history, maths and art lessons weren't about her making her own way in the world; they were lessons that were more conniving than her mother's because they had hidden their identity. Her father had been moulding her all these years to be the best wife, a woman who could add to her husband's skills.

Then there was the finer, subtler, points of the matter. Her mother wants nothing less than for her to rich and titled, and she knows her father sees the advantages that might offer him in business. Cora wants neither money nor title. She wants nothing except to live her life with someone whom she can trust, respect and love. She watches her parents and they possess none of those feelings for each other and it was the source of a quiet house except when there are arguments. And yet, the only thing they did seem to agree on was taking her hundreds of miles from home, to a new culture to get married just to better their own lives.

She isn't completely naïve, she knows that love is not a factor people associated with happy marriage, not amongst her class anyway, and neither is it something she is going to find in the length of time her mother has stipulated for her to 'find a Duke in London.' But it doesn't stop her from hoping that maybe she will find a man whom she can learn to love.

Her anxiety over the matter is not just brought about by her anger at having been dragged from the studies she loved so very much (she couldn't see why she couldn't keep learning at least until she was twenty) but also because of the stories she had heard from Isabella. Her friend had travelled to Europe, just as she is now, this time a year ago, she too had spent some weeks in Paris adding to her wardrobe before arriving in London in mid-March, where she had become engaged to a Duke within little over a month. Cora remembers how full of joy her letters had been, exclaiming over his handsome features and the estate he had owned since his father's death. Her letters had spilt over with praise for the young man who was clearly capturing her heart. Not long after the wedding though the letters Cora received changed. She talked less of his wonders and more of how little she saw him, instead contenting herself with his large library. She noted how he always seemed to be busy with work and that the country house was large and too quiet for her liking. When Cora had announced her own upcoming plans to make the same journey Isabella had, her friend had warned her to keep her cards close to her chest that, 'you will be an object of fascination without drawing attention to yourself. And, the men that seek you out aren't to be trusted because most of them only want your money.'

Again, the hidden message that she will not only be an outsider to the society she was heading for, but that the only men who were likely to be interested in her were the ones who needed more than a woman of their own breeding could offer, gave her no surprise. Her learning had included the different methods of inheritance around the world and she was well aware that had she been English her father's fortune would not be spread evenly between her and Harold but that she would have a small settlement (in comparison to the whole) as a dowry and the rest would be Harold's. She had wondered in the last few weeks if those lessons had been designed specifically by her father to warn her, subtly, of what was to come in her life. To tell her to be on her guard. She had only wished she had warned her friend.

The cobbled streets are wet from the rain that has thundered down most of the night, and largely kept her awake, so she takes care with each step. A soiled gown would be difficult for her maid to conceal and then questions would be asked. The gas lamps throw beautiful colours across the stone, highlighting the imperfections in the shaping, the ruts and cracks that makes each individual. It was quite romantic really, and she briefly lets her mind wander to what it might be like to walk the streets with a man holding her hand. She closes those thoughts away, attributing them to the fact that Valentine's Day two days ago, and her own diminishing prospects of a loving marriage were letting her dreams overtake reality.

This morning's destination was the theatre, two streets from the house her parents had rented, that they had attended last night for an opera. It wasn't a large theatre, not like the ones they had visited in the heart of the city but it had made a good show of _Magic Flute_ last night. In fact, Cora had rarely seen an opera performance be so convincing. What she had been more taken with, though, was the architecture of the building. Her mother, of course, had not let her stop to admire it and although she had got her fill of the interior last night, the large dome and spacious foyer with the spiralled staircase, she had not studied the exterior to the extent that she had wished to.

Remembering the spacious foyer, and her craning her neck to look up at the beautiful painting of cherubs on the ceiling, brings a blush to her cheeks because of how she had been foolish enough to walk into a gentleman who was trying to cross the crowd because she wasn't paying attention. He certainly hadn't seemed to pay her much attention apologising quickly in English and then French. It would have been less embarrassing for her if he hadn't been the object of some fascination to her already that evening. He had been sitting in one of the boxes across from their own and she had watched him with some curiosity as the opera had progressed. His brow hardened whenever the main actress was absent from the stage and his attention seemed to wane. When she returned, his gaze seemed to take on a fixed stare that made it appear as though his thoughts were a long way from the opera. His hurried departure the second the curtain hit the ground, without so much as one clap, had confirmed what she had already known. The gentleman was in a hurry to meet with the lady. Cora knew enough of the world to know that men were allowed certain experiences that a respectable woman was not allowed until marriage. What they were, she knew not, she didn't think she wanted to know. She knew enough from home to know that women in the acting profession were deemed suitable for whatever the activity was, and that many men sought them out rather than ladies of the street.

It wasn't his infatuation with the actress that had originally drawn her attention though. Oh no, it had been her own acknowledgement that she thought him handsome. He had hair the shade of dark hazelnut that seemed to have errant strands that tumbled across his forehead in a delightful irregularity, and even from the distance she sat from him, she recognised his shoulders to be broad and manly. When she had encountered him in the foyer her blush hadn't just been for bumping into him but also finding that his eyes were a startling shade of blue she had observed nowhere else.

Drawing up to the theatre she clears her head of all those tumbling thoughts and instead immerses herself in the architecture she had come to study. The dome that had looked so stunning from the inside was a marvel from the outside. She tips her head back to observe how each fragment was curved to fit exactly with the next. The windows, which had been obscured from the inside with curtains, had an elegance that broke up the bulkier appearance of the façade. The arches of pillars that ran down the right of the theatre on have elegant swirls at the bottom and top, much like what she knew people saw on the ruins in Rome. Above the doorway was a plaque in French, dating the building and naming its creator. In one panel flaps the advertisement for the current opera, in the opposite one the list of upcoming performances.

She is about to walk to the left of the building in the hope of seeing the dome from new angles and to see if the architecture shows continuity around it when a door on the right, between the pillars opens. From her position in line with the corner of the building she sees a gentleman emerge. The very same, blue eyed, gentleman from the night before. So, she had been right, his infatuation with the actress had not been imagined by her churning emotions.

She knows she should look away but she finds he can't. In the back of her mind she tells herself that there is no good reason for her to keep watching him, he might get the wrong idea, but a stronger part of her can't stop hoping that he will look up and recognise her. When he does look up from adjusting his hat she drops her gaze instantly, knowing that the slight start he makes was him at the very least acknowledging her gaze on him, if not recognition. She wonders if she should turn tail and head home, was that not what a respectable woman on the verge of being married do? She shifts her eyes to the right slightly, to ascertain what he is deciding, without lifting her head too much. She needn't have bothered trying to hide her glance, he is travelling a path that runs straight to her.

"Madam, you look quite lost. Might I be of any assistance?" It seemed he was an English gentleman, she contemplates not answering, he could be a murderer for all she knew, and pretending to not understand him but she reasons with herself that would be rude. The undercurrent of her brain telling her the real reason she turns to look him in the eye is much more to do with how handsome she thinks him, is almost, but not quite, buried beneath her 'manners.'

"I am not lost, Sir, thank you. I like to take an early morning walk to admire the architecture of the city."

"You take these walks unchaperoned?" Her previous fears about his possible motives resurrect themselves but something about the turn at the corner of his mouth, as if he were suppressing a smile only makes her turn and gesture at the way back, her hand extending an invitation.

"Yes. I cannot risk taking my maid because although I trust her very much, I expect her colleagues would notice her absence and my parents would hardly approve." She laughs at herself gently, why was she telling a man she had just met, alone, in the half-light, half of her story?

"What exactly brought you to the theatre this morning?"

"I attended a show last night and only really got to admire the interior. I wanted a chance to see the exterior in a better light." She doesn't add that she might have seen the interior better if she had not been so distracted by a handsome man. They fall into a slight silence and Cora wonders if she should release him from his obligation of walking her home.

"What did you make of the show, Miss, err, I am sorry, I haven't even asked your name." She risks lifting her eyes to his face to find his cheeks tinged with pink, and the hair she had last night so admired flopped messily across his forehead as he shifts it in agitation.

"Miss Levinson."

"Very pleased to meet you, Miss Levinson. I am Mr Crawley." She notices a hesitation before he gives his name, as if he was going to say a different name. Could it be that he was lying to her? Giving her a false name to confuse her?

"You hesitated over your name, Mr Crawley. Should I not trust you?" He colours rather deeply and crosses his hands behind his back.

"I was only hesitant about giving you my other name. Not for any reason other than the fact a lot of young women swoon when I say it, their dear mothers hearing wedding bells. In recent years, I have refrained from using it so not to cause undue pain. From your accent, I assumed you might be heading for the season in London in a few months. I hope by stating that, I have not brought up a false assumption and insulted you?" She cannot help but smile broadly, this young man was certainly quick off the mark.

"Your assumption is correct; I head to London in a month. I suppose I am to assume you are the son of one of the mighty English peers my mother does indeed hear wedding bells about?" He laughs very softly as she makes that remark which settles her nerves a little.

"My father is an Earl. The Earl of Grantham." She nods solemnly. She very well might see Mr Crawley again then. It was clear from his way of talking that he was unmarried. She chastises herself gently, she should not be getting all hung up over a man she had known three minutes just because he is handsome. It seemed unlikely that he wanted to marry anyway, and if he was not a fan of matchmaking mamas he was definitely not going to like her mother. Although maybe her mother wouldn't be interested, after all, he was only heading for an Earldom; he was hardly the Duke she dreamed about. They fall into a silence again that Cora finds more awkward than the last, at least then she hadn't discovered things that made her stomach heavy, the latest realisations did.

"I don't think I answered your question about whether I liked the performance last night. The answer is that I did, I have rarely seen an opera that despite having, perhaps, not all the advantages of money, had tremendous acting and singing."

"I quite agree." She sneaks a look at his countenance, wondering if she is brave enough, and he prepared enough, for the next words she is contemplating saying.

"The lead actress was particularly compelling don't you think Mr Crawley?" She watches him nod once, his lip disappearing into the clasp of his teeth. "But I imagine you might know better than I the finer merits of her character?" She felt like Miss Elizabeth Bennet upon meeting Wickham after his marriage to her sister; teasing him but never quite admitting what she knows. He coughs and colours, and she can't help but smile lightly, her grin spreading wider as he focuses his eyes on the ground. "I am sorry Sir; I have shocked you with my manners. And indeed, it was quite wrong of me to bring such a thing up." She notes that he has recovered enough at least to raise his head if not to look at her.

"You did shock me. But more because I have been brought up in a society where women don't understand the intricacies of a man's life before they are married." It seems it was her turn to look embarrassed, her mother would not be pleased with her mentioning such things in polite conversation, it gave the wrong impression.

"Believe me sir, when I say all I know is that men are allowed to do certain things before marriage that are not permitted for respectable women. I know no particulars. Actresses, I believe, perform much the same role in every society, I doubt the French actresses are exempt from their additional, unspoken role in the society that is also taken up by women of the profession in America."

"I never doubted your innocence, Miss Levinson, I can assure you." She drops her head in a small nod to acknowledge that his subtle apology was accepted.

They walk on largely in silence, Cora quite content listening to their steps echo in tandem. She is conscious of the way he walks, his long stride that seems to have a gentleness that she wouldn't have expected of his large frame. He keeps his hands behind his back but he can tell from the slight movements his shoulders make that he was likely twisting them about. He only looks at her when they are speaking. They discuss the other attractions in Paris and places they have both dined. She explains her mother's determination to visit every boutique while she would much rather tour the bookstores and museums.

They reach her street not ten minutes after having met and she tells him she is happy to go the rest of the way alone.

"I insist Miss Levinson that you let me take you to your door, or perhaps a back door, seeing as you are not supposed to be out." He smiles brightly, dimples appearing on his cheeks as his lips turn up further. His eyes are made brighter by the expression and she can do nothing but nod her head and keep walking, to find words was too hard.

"This is me," She stops just short of the front steps, "thank you for walking me home Mr Crawley. Perhaps we shall meet again in London."

"We very well might Miss Levinson. Good day." He dips his hat and turns away, she puts her foot up onto the first step when she catches him turning abruptly in her peripheral vision. "Miss Levinson, before you go inside, one last thing. I think you ought to refrain from your walks, I would not want any harm to become of you." She dips her head briefly, closing her eyes. It was a very astounding sentiment coming from someone she hardly knew but however astounding, he held no power over her and she was not about to give up the only freedom she had.

She turns away, and he does also. She is not looking where she is walking, her thoughts swimming with a hundred fantasies that she should not be letting cloud her reality, and as such she misses the front door opening and her father stepping out.

"Cora," his voice is icy, and his eyes are sharp when she looks up into them, "get inside, _now_. Meet me in the library. And you sir," he raises his voice in Mr Crawley's direction and jabs his finger, " _you_ better wait in the entrance hall." He spits the words and Cora can't remember him looking angrier. She turns to glance at Mr Crawley, but he is looking away from her, at the ground. No doubt he was wishing he had never offered to walk her home.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thank you so much for the great reviews for the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one as much, and stick with me through this journey. The reviews have even tempted me back into writing chapter 18 - so thank you for that. Even baby steps are progress at the** **moment. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

She wasn't one to be fazed by her father attempting to interfere in her life. She was willing to accept that her wandering about a foreign city in the early hours of the morning was not perhaps her wisest choice. Indeed, she would have openly admitted this to her father if he had been nice enough to stop shouting for one second and just hear what she had to say. But still he yelled on, and still she stood before him in silence not willing to be roused by his exclamations. She was certainly not going to lower herself to his methods of communication just to please him.

"How many times have you met this gentleman?" Cora is well aware this is the crux of the matter for her father and it hurts her more than she cares to admit that he is more worried for her reputation than the fact she could have been abducted or murdered on one of her walks. He could get passed the rule breaking but not the potential loss to his own name.

"None before this morning. _Mr Crawley_ offered to walk me home."

"And you accepted!? WITHOUT KNOWING ANYTHING OF HIM, YOU ACCEPTED!?" He stalks across the room to her and she tenses in fear that he will grab her. He had never done so before but then she was beginning to question everything she had previously known about her father. He doesn't touch her, instead he peers over her from his superior height. But she was not one to be intimidated, not when she has done nothing (well, hardly anything) wrong. Her father seems to have forgotten that when a gentleman offered his arm, a woman would be unwise to decline when she is in a vulnerable position. She had done far more wrong by leaving the house to walk alone than having a conversation with Mr Crawley.

"This is your only problem isn't it Pa? You think that he may have soiled my reputation in some way. I will have you know he has not. We walked together and talked."

"And I am to believe that? Coming from the daughter who has been walking out my front door alone for the last two weeks. Am I meant to believe a girl intent on breaking the rules?" He leans further over her and she stares back. Taking a steadying breath, she looks deeper into his eyes and finds the father who had bounced her on his knees when she was a young girl.

"You know you believe it Pa because deep down you know what you're doing is wrong. Dragging the daughter, you love above all else, halfway around the globe to get married is ludicrous. And if you step back and think about everything you know about me, and at the same time you think about your actions these past few months, you know that it is that, _and that alone_ , which has driven me to seek solace in the silence of the morning. Without you, and your inability to stand up to mother we would not be here. If _you_ had taken just one step back to think about what the plans you and mother have made might have upon me, the girl who knew nothing of them before two months ago, none of this would be happening. Nobody but yourself is to blame!" She loses it then, and she shoves him hard in the chest, rushing passed him to the door as he stares after her back blankly.

A figure stands in the hallway as she runs passed, her hair falling from the messy bun she had tied it in that morning. She doesn't acknowledge him, what was the point? He was never going to want anything to do with them now. Not after he had heard that outburst and certainly not after her father had taken a bite out of him too.

In her room, she throws her muff onto the bed before tipping her head back in the hope of making the tears she can feel threatening, go away. They don't, and she falls onto the bed in a heap, pulling the muff against her cheek. It is soft and comforting, a reminder of the childhood life she had been asked so abruptly to leave behind forever just less than two months ago. Not that she had really been asked. She had been told. Of course, she had already left the simple comforts of her childhood behind when she had reached her teens. No longer sleeping with her teddy bear in bed with her, but instead perched on the bookshelf. She ate dinner with her parents and was allowed to stay up far later; helping her mother to entertain guests. Her lessons had taken up less of her time and she had spent afternoons with her friends, gossiping and drinking coffee. She had even been allowed more say in the style and colour of her dresses. But those were all innocent things, none of them, whispered of anything vaguely adult. Then, from nowhere, the marriage card had been thrown her way and not just any marriage card either. Her parents were going to drag her from everything she knew to make this step in her life. There was not even to be the comfort of her childhood home.

Perhaps, she reasons, it would have been manageable if she had been given enough time to get used to the idea of leaving everything she knew behind; if she had been given a chance to say those goodbyes. But she had not. The horn had been sounding on the ship before she'd had time to kiss her brother goodbye.

She felt strongly let down, mostly by her father, but she knows she would have forgiven him if he had shown his usual caring nature. If he had hugged her and let her cry, even allowed for her tutor to give her some extra studies to attend to while away but when she had asked her Papa had shaken his head, 'you must do as your mother asks. You are a girl no longer, Cora.'

None of that explained why only today, after a full month from America, she had lashed out. She had been given numerous opportunities in previous weeks to take a dig at her father and she had backed down every time.

Why was this morning different? Was it just because he had imposed himself on the only private time she had or was there something deeper eating at her? What was vexing her so? It wasn't as though her father had threatened her with anything. He had been disappointed and angry but then she had expected that. Perhaps, she muses, it was just that the anger she had been sitting on had reached its peak when he had lost his control with her; she didn't think it was deserved, not after what he had chosen to do to her life, surely she should be allowed some sort of freedom?

No, she realises, that what upsets her the most is the timing. And not even the timing relating to the fact that today was forever going to sit in her mind as the day she lost her last inch of freedom. No, she was more concerned that she had lost the chance of something that hadn't even begun. She had potentially lost the friendship of a man who might make her feel once inch less lonely when she arrived in London in a month.

Deep down it was possible that silly romantic notions played a part but even when she removed that from the situation and thought of the whole thing pragmatically she could see the advantage of knowing somebody on the 'inside' who is respected. Her friend Isabella, might very well be a Duchess now but she was still American and her letters told nothing of any friends she had made. Indeed, she was likely an outsider and thus not the best way for Cora to truly get a feel of the world her parents were so desperate for her to make her life. So yes, losing Mr Crawley's potential friendship was going to be a blow. In fact, it was more likely than not, that after a fight with her Pa, he would warn every member of the respectable ton from inviting her to their gatherings and she would be left with no choice but to marry someone drooling at the mouth for her money. It was fair to say her life had just spiralled another few feet towards disillusion.

She doesn't dare to lift her head from the bedding, not wanting to hear the words her father was likely directing at an innocent man he hardly knew. She was being too sympathetic, she knew that, what did it matter what her father said to Mr Crawley, he was a grown man and could fight his own battles. The problem is, she does feel slightly responsible. He hadn't had to walk her home, he had seen her vulnerability and offered, she should have done the sensible thing and turned him down but his smile and handsome features had affected her, and now here they were, both in trouble.

She groans into the muff at the sound of a knock at the door. That could only be her mother demanding that she got up so they could continue the joys of shopping. She is more than a little surprised to have the door swing open and reveal her maid, Emma.

"Sorry to disturb you Miss, but Mrs Levinson has asked for you to be made ready for a trip to the shops." Cora rolls her eyes and reluctantly drags herself upright. She could feel the headache beginning to pinch at the back of her eyes already. This was going to be a very long day. Emma's face swims for a second in front of her as her body shudders at the repositioning of the room.

"Might you get me something for a headache Emma. I'll attend to myself in the washroom while you are gone." Emma seems to hesitate, heading for the door and then changing her mind and slowing spinning on the spot.

"Is the headache related to this morning's walk and your father's temper?" Cora was well aware that in any other house that kind of impertinence would have a maid sacked but Emma had become her friend and she had allowed the woman to speak in such a way to her she was not going to change that now just because she is on the cusp of being married.

"Probably. It was hardly the relaxing outing my other walks have been."

"Your father only worries about your safety. He loves you very much." Emma had been listening to her complaining about her father for the last few months, ever since the announcement of his marriage plans for her, and this was by no means the first-time Emma had tried to remind her that her father still loved her.

"Perhaps, but he has far too many ulterior motives for his affection at the minute. And I have far too many reasons not to receive it."

"No ulterior motives made themselves known to me when he came down to the servant's hall ten minutes ago. He seemed very much determined to set things right with you and I could tell he was shaken by whatever passed in his conversation with you." Emma has a silly smile on her face when Cora looks up.

"Emma, you aren't making sense. What was Pa doing in the servant's hall?"

"He was asking me to be your chaperone, that is if you wish to continue your walks?" Cora jumps from the bed and very almost wraps Emma in a hug but then she remembers that although she might be fine with that, Emma was likely to be embarrassed by the behaviour. Instead she darts out the room, calling to Emma that she will be back in a minute.

She flies down the stairs, her body weight leaning so far forward, as her head tries to reach the destination faster than her feet can carry her, that she thinks for a half a second that her morning walks will be ruined by her falling down the stairs and breaking her leg. She doesn't knock as she approaches the room off the library that her father had been using for business since their arrival in Paris.

"Is Emma being honest? Have you asked her to walk out with me?" Her questions come out disjointed, breathy gasps between the words as she tries to regain her breath.

She watches as he lowers his pen and lifts his head in an agonisingly slow manner, that reminded her of the times Harold would try to annoy her by taking forever to do the simplest of tasks.

"It does not mean that I agree with your rule breaking Cora. You could have come to serious harm. Next time I expect you to ask me. I will not permit it in London either, we do not want more young men like Mr Crawley getting the wrong impression of you, do we?" Cora tries to focus on the fact her father was allowing her the walks she so enjoyed but she cannot help but see that he is only daggling an incentive in front of her. She could have the time now, when it mattered little who saw her, but in London she was going to have to be on her best behaviour so that she could claim the best husband. As long as she didn't ruin her prospects her father had no issue, but the minute it might, she was back on stricter terms.

"No papa, I suppose we don't. I hope you weren't too harsh to him. It wasn't his fault that I was out walking when I shouldn't have been. He was only trying to offer his protection."

"I gave him what he deserved for accosting my daughter when he had never clapped eyes on you before." She doesn't dare tell him that they had seen each other the night before at the theatre, that would only make her father hunt him down, assuming he had planned to prey on her.

Cora knows she is dismissed as he uncaps his pen and returns to his work; the subject of Mr Crawley was clearly not one her father was going to dwell on. Maybe it was better this way, she reasoned, her all too obvious preference for him before she arrived in London would be a source of gossip and would definitely infuriate her mother. It was not a good idea for her either, she knew herself well enough to know that her own romantic notions would get in the way of her making a rational choice. And her choice did have to be rational, at least to some extent. After all, this man was going to be allowed control of all of her money, and she had to trust he would use it wisely. Beyond that, she was going to spend the rest of her life living in his house and raising his children, whether she loved him or not. A kind man who viewed her, at the very least, as a person with a right to an opinion was the most important thing. Just because a man was handsome did not mean he offered those qualities.

She takes the stairs more calmly on the way back up and not only because she is deep in thought but because her mother, she can hear, is marching outside her bedroom. The floorboards make a decisive sound. Added to that she keeps calling inside with little statements about all the shopping she has planned for the day. Emma was either placating her by pretending to 'still comb Miss Levinson's hair,' or she had locked the door; Cora favoured the latter. She trudges her foot over the last step and plasters her face with a wide smile, swallowing the thoughts about her future and the dread that filled her at the mere thought of more shopping. She didn't mind it when it was on her own terms, but with her mother, nothing was on anyone's terms but hers.

"Cora! What on earth are you wearing? And your hair!? Why are you not dressed for shopping?" The questions rattle from her mouth with no space between them. Cora can't help but sigh outwardly.

"Mother, I am not ready because I had to speak with Pa."

"What did he want? It can't have been important. He is just trying to cloud your mind with more history and politics I suppose. You know you would be better ignoring him entirely. None of those things has a place in the life of a wife." Cora chooses not to reply, she and her mother had argued over this topic enough to last their entire lives, there was no point in doing it all again.

"I will be down in half an hour."

"Very good." She swings around, the back of her dress swinging out and almost tripping Cora up. "Oh and Cora, tonight you must wear what I put out, your father says we might have guests for dinner." Cora groans inwardly, these guests must be of some value to more than just her father if her mother was making her dress in what she chose. Maybe her father had invited someone he had met at one of the nearby clubs, no doubt it was probably someone with some connection to the aristocracy of England, they might even have their own eligible son in tow. It was the last thing she needed. Why she hadn't been made aware of the plans before she didn't know, but then she supposed she shouldn't be surprised, her parents weren't exactly the best at keeping her informed.

"Yes mother." She mutters it against the door, her mother already halfway down the corridor. She takes a large, steadying breath. It was time to forget this morning had ever happened and progress through her life, one day at a time.

* * *

The flash of pain spreads from the point of his toes to his lower leg in a jolt, why was it hitting furniture never served to relieve his annoyance? He pulls at his neck tie instead, throwing it across the room to try and alleviate the pounding in his head.

He had been reckless. Reckless and stupid.

They were the only words he could think of to describe his behaviour this morning. He approached a young woman and got himself embroiled in a mesh. He should have seen right through it when she had admitted to being at the theatre the previous night. No doubt her scheming mother had spied him, recognised him, watched him and sent her daughter on a trek to the theatre knowing he was likely to surface early in the morning after his night with Clarisse. And what had he done? He had fallen right for it.

Of course, her father was going to call on him at the hotel that afternoon. It wasn't about him 'wanting to discuss this out of the earshot of the servants' it was about wanting to arrange things in the way that suited him parcelling off his daughter without her finding out. He thought he knew enough of Miss Levinson to know that she would not like to think she was being told to do something.

Whatever way he looked at it everything led to the same thing, he had been reckless. His father had always said not to trust any woman, and certainly not a single, unattached woman. She was bound to have at least one scheming parent who would use whatever they could to force a marriage.

When he asked himself why he had been reckless, why he had not turned away when Miss Levinson had said she was fine was a 'what if' that had swum in his head ever since her father had shouted at him from the front door. The truth of the matter, he was slowly realising, was a mixture of things.

For the first time since receiving his father's telegram he had felt content and his outlook on life was not the completely black sketch it had turned into of late. This was almost completely down to his night with Clarisse which had not only fulfilled his need to feel in control but had reminded him what it felt like to completely give in to his desires. He had relished the opportunity, the marriage cloud that was looming seemed to make him forget his previous woes with the customs of his society, and had instead made him embrace the novelty of having what he liked, when he liked. It had met very few men who received that attention from their wife. Why should he not have it now, while he could?

Either way, the happy turn his life had taken in less than twelve hours had meant that when he saw Miss Levinson he had seen only the small, young woman, clearly not local, gazing up at the building and looking around as though she was lost. He had not seen the scheming American mother that sat behind her, carefully watching from the background. And then, he knew in his head, that her pretty manners and her intelligence and learning as she had talked about books and theatre had captured him. Deeper than that was the innocence in which she spoke of his obvious meeting with Clarisse, it had made him blush, he wouldn't deny that but it showed an adventurous side to her character and an honesty he saw in few women who hung around the edges of ballrooms. They just simpered and flirted.

He throws his jacket off at that thought. He was being reckless again.

Miss Levinson had been flirting, he gently reminds himself, just not in the way he was used to. She had no fan, no overly full dance card or a glass of champagne to calm her nerves. No, she had flirted far more convincingly because she had been educated enough that she could hold a conversation that was more similar to one he might have with his sister or father, she knew her way around the head of a man in a way many women did not. This ultimately meant that she had made him feel so comfortable and relaxed that he had forgotten the advice his father had always given. Well he had been comfortable most of the time, until he had brought up his whereabouts with Clarisse. Had it been that obvious at the theatre what his intentions were? And he had never thought about women knowing the ins and outs of a young man's existence. Never had he looked at the sisters of his friends and thought that maybe they had some idea, albeit not the particulars, about what went on when their brothers travelled to the continent. No doubt women like Julie, quickly realised when they married, particularly with James as her husband, but Robert had assumed their complete ignorance until that point, how wrong he was. Or maybe he was not, and Miss Levinson was just wiser than her tender years.

There was no point fussing over it now. The facts were the facts. She had flirted and he had unwisely succumbed. Her father was going to call in a few hours and he was going to have to agree to whatever the man had in mind. After all it was unlikely however much he and Miss Levinson stated nothing had happened, that he was going to believe them. After all, that was not in his best interests.

He wonders at going to see Clarisse for a couple of hours, she had said he could call in the day if he liked, but the thought vanishes as quickly as it comes. Miss Levinson might be hanging around again, it was unlikely the parents were going to give up now they had started. He would visit Clarisse later, after his meeting with Mr Levinson, he will probably need it by then anyway.

He calls for his valet and takes a bath, he was grim from lack of sleep (not that he was disappointed in the activities he had spent the night in, he was far from disappointed in fact). But that didn't change the fact that his clothes were yesterday's and they seemed to stick awkwardly.

The water is calming and helps him to think over how he might work with Mr Levinson. Would the man be reasonable enough to accept his help in introducing his daughter to London society or was he going to expect him to marry her straight out, to admit that he had made a mistake that would cost him his choice of bride and everything his father needed so desperately. He stops there. His eyes flying open with a realisation he had only just made.

Miss Levinson is American.

American meant money. She was heading for London to exchange her money for a title. This was about more than matchmaking mamas; this was about everything he needed. If he played his cards right, he could get everything his father needed and keep Mr Levinson quiet.

He sits bolt upright in the bath, the water sliding of his back. Then he sighs and falls back against the tub. Scheming was not right and certainly not when the life of a young, innocent woman was in the bargain. She should not have her life dictated any more, and certainly not by a man she doesn't know. She had already stressed to him how her mother was pressuring her. Besides, he hardly knows her, and although he knows she could fill all the criteria his father has (his mother was another story), he would prefer, if he could, to find a woman who also fitted at least some of his own. He would like to think that a friendship at least was not too great a thing to hope came of his marriage. It seemed she was intelligent, but was it the kind of intelligence he needed? It was unlikely she had been given maths or business lessons, or knew anything about running an estate since she wouldn't have had any experience of that in America, and that was the intelligence he needed, the things he knew he was going to need support with.

He shakes his head again, there was no point in getting hung up on it all, not before he knew what Mr Levinson was thinking of. But he knew one thing, he would fight tooth and nail to be allowed to choose his wife without interference from anyone. It was true his time was running out, and his father was already adding stipulations to the list but aside from the money, he wanted to choose where he wanted without reference to anybody else. He wasn't even bothered if she wasn't as intelligent as he hoped, but he wanted a woman he felt comfortable with who could serve to the best of her abilities, to be his companion. Maybe she wouldn't be the best dancer, or the most intelligent, maybe she wouldn't be the most titled or the best on the piano but he was determined that he would like her and could imagine her at Downton, standing by his side and prepared to support him, to be his friend and help him.

He exits the bath just as his valet appears with his clothes. He seems agitated and holds a note out to him. Robert flips it open, Mr Levinson had arrived, he briefly apologises for being earlier than planned but he thought it best to get the conversation over with. Robert couldn't agree more with that sentiment. If he was going to have to argue it out he would rather do so when the arguments are still fresh in his head.

He dresses quickly and easily; his valet knew his ways and before much time has passed he is down the stairs and entering the foyer. A member of staff directs him to a room off the side, saying that his visitor had requested some privacy for their conversation. That made Robert gulp. If there was one thing he knew about private conversations, it was that it usually meant one person was going to exert some kind of pressure over the other and he did not want it witnessed.

Therefore, it is with some hesitancy that he steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him, avoiding making eye contact with his companion. When he does look up he finds Mr Levinson is seated, reading over an English paper, one leg hitched up on the other's knee. He has his glasses resting precariously on the end of his nose, and Robert could see from this angle the slight patch of his head that was experiencing some hair loss. In the morning light, he had assumed Mr Levinson's to be younger than he probably was and it was clear looking at him like this that he was about the same age as his own father, heading for his sixties. He doesn't look up as Robert clears his throat and takes a seat in the spacious armchair opposite the more mature gentleman.

The room was decorated in those dark colours everyone assumed men liked, this was a gentleman's meeting room after all, but Robert couldn't say he was overly keen. The library and smoking room at Downton had a tendency to get very dark once daylight disappeared and Robert felt that in the long term the lighter shades of the drawing room were better for heightening his mood or keeping him awake.

The paper rustles to a close and is placed in Robert's eyeline (he had been staring at the low table that separated the two men). He looks up and meets the man's eyes, only to have to remember to keep his mouth closed; his eyes were a match for a pair he had seen in his daughter, something he had also failed to notice this morning. The man takes the glasses from him nose and unfolds his legs, resting his lower arm on his knee and leaning toward Robert.

"Mr Crawley, thank you for joining me. I thought this was done better out of the open ears of my wife and daughter." Here he goes, ready to make his demands, Robert takes a large breath.

"Mr Levinson, if you would just let me explain what- "He holds up his hand.

"I must stop you there, Sir. You will not find me unreasonable, I do not want to argue. I mean to come to a solution that suits us both." Robert opens his mouth and leans forward himself but Mr Levinson once more shakes his head, willing him not to say anything. Robert wasn't going to be taken that easily.

"Sir, you must understand," he stands, pulling his jacket fast around him, "I merely offered your daughter a walk home. I did not think it right that a young woman should be walking the streets alone. I did not harm her, or impose myself on her in any way!" Robert is taken aback when his companion grins widely and laughs, settling back into his chair as a large guffaw erupts from his mouth. Robert knows he can't contain the way he stares this time, what was this man about?

"Oh, Mr Crawley, do take a seat. I think you believe I am about to force a marriage contract your way! Do you not think I value my daughter more highly than that, to marry her off to a man she has known but two minutes?" Robert didn't like to tell him that by taking her to London that seemed like precisely what he did appear as, now wasn't the time. Besides, his head is spinning, was he hearing that he was going to be able to select a wife as he would like (as far as that fitted his father's wishes)? "She has told me what happened and I believe her. I must say you owe her some heartfelt thanks as she very much begged that I left you out of it. Indeed, she is right, if anything it is my own failing that meant she was out in a manner so unsuitable for her station and I owe you, perhaps, for her life. I value nothing more than her Mr Crawley. Some men say their sons are their legacy, their reason for living, mine is my daughter." Robert sees something in the man's eyes that makes him sit, there was an emotion there he had never seen in either of his parents' eyes when they spoke to him. It was terribly moving.

"She was certainly a credit to you Sir. Her conversation spoke of nothing but intelligence. Might I ask, what exactly was your reason for coming, if not to make me marry your daughter?"

"I would like you to come to dinner tonight, or we can dine here if you would be more comfortable? As I said, it is possible I owe you for my daughter's life, I will not let that pass up without at least one dinner. Another, additional reason, is that Miss Levinson is very scared about her transition to London and I thought maybe you could give her some pointers. She has one friend who married into your aristocracy last year and they have communicated, but I know my daughter and I have never seen her so tense or emotionally fragile." Robert thought again of her that morning, the way she had clasped her muff to her stomach in a way that wasn't just for warmth but possibly as a way of kind of holding herself together.

"It would be my pleasure Mr Levinson, I know what you could have demanded of me and one dinner, maybe more, I would certainly not be averse to the idea, seems a fine plan. What time do you dine?"

"Eight."

"Very well, I shall see you at eight." He sticks outs his hand and Mr Levinson takes it in a firm shake. He moves to stand and then changes his mind, there was something bothering him that he wanted to ask Mr Levinson. "There is one think I find does not fit with your affection for your daughter. Why are you sending her to England to marry? She will be living the rest of her life thousands of miles from you."

"You are acute Mr Crawley." The older man hesitates, rubbing his palms together. "It is the wish of my wife to have her situated so, with a title and a large house. But that is not the only reason, there is something else, more personal that even my wife does not know. She thinks I have agreed to all this just to please her. It is what has upset Cora, my sudden change of attitude." He looks down, studying the carpet between his feet and suddenly Robert wishes he hadn't asked, this was clearly not a matter that was important to him.

"I think maybe I have overstepped the mark, Sir. Forget I said anything."

"No, it is probably time I told at least someone. Maybe telling you, despite the fact I hardly know you, will alleviate some of the crushing pain. I am dying. I have a few years but that is all." Robert falls back in the chair. It was strange, how such serious subjects, even being spoken about between strangers evoked a particular effect. Robert didn't know this man, not really, but he couldn't help be touched by his plight and that of his family. "I don't want Cora to see that. I won't have her remembering me as a dying man." Robert is not sure which part touches him most, the man's clear love for his daughter or that fact Miss Levinson's name is Cora. It was a pretty name, different, but pretty. It suited her, sharp and to the point but with a distinct feminine quality.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Thank you all for the lovely reviews on the last chapter. I am sorry I have taken a while to update, I have been super busy! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and if you do, a review means an awful lot and might motivate me into trying to finish this story off properly! Cobert love.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

Robert shuts the door behind him and surreptitiously looks around before quickly stepping out into the dimly lit street. He doesn't know why he looks, yes, he is leaving the flat of a French actress but it wasn't as if it was something that other men of his class didn't do. Besides, he has made a point of being conspicuous, unlike his cousin, whose latest dalliance was no doubt being spread across the front pages of The Times as he walks.

The light drizzle is doing nothing to help his mood. Clarisse did not have a performance tonight, it was the change-over day between the company's two plays. That being so, she had been expecting, and he had anticipated, that he would be spending the night with her, but Mr Levinson had other ideas. Robert had begrudgingly agreed to attend dinner at the Levinson's just because of that complete disaster with the scheming Miss Levinson. But, he supposed it was one night, once it is over he can return to the alluring charms of Clarisse until he has to return to London, a deadline looming far too near.

He knows he should be feeling relaxed and content, after all Mr Levinson had been reasonable enough not to force him into marrying his daughter. However, that did not change the fact that Miss Levinson had probably gone home and spent the whole morning telling her mother how she had ensnarled some wealthy Englishman on her morning walk. He kicks a loose pebble into the road, what was his life coming to? Even in his 'free' time he was having to think about young women and their motives and actions, he had thought he was escaping all this until he returned to London.

He hadn't had a chance to really look at the house the Levinsons' were renting in Paris before, but as he approaches this time he notes the height of the building and although this was not always a reflection of grandeur (after all, a tall building could just be apartments) this house also has a width, and a portico over the front door, that screams expense. The windows prove it, any house with windows as large as this one had to be owned, or rented, by a man willing to pay for the house to be heated in some other way. If his father was beside him now he would be streaming off phrases of encouragement and rubbing his hands together, not to keep them warm but 'because of your expert catch son.' Robert finds solace in that thought, at least he is alone.

He climbs the steps quickly, desperate to get out of the rain and to abandon his coat to the waiting servant. The rain had picked up in strength, something he realises most when he goes to take his hat off, only to find the rim is filled with rainwater. He shakes his hand in disgust to dispel the filthy water.

The door opens and he angrily shoves the hat at the waiting pair of hands before turning to shrug off his coat, could this evening get any worse?

"Mr Crawley, you're here." Robert suppresses a growl towards the man who has separated him from Clarisse. "I don't suppose you would care for a drink while we await the ladies?" He nods his agreement and follows him into the room he had emerged from. He soon discovers it is the library, not that there are many books, but then this was only a second house, if that for whomever Mr Levinson was renting from. The desk is covered with neatly piled letters which doesn't surprise him, Mr Levinson had already struck him as very organised and he knows enough about rich Americans to know Mr Levinson is probably trying to manage a business while he is abroad.

What he really notices, perhaps because he can hear in his head exactly what his mother would say at the sight, is the absence of a footman by the decanter of drink. Instead Mr Levinson walks over to the table and pours it himself before asking how he would like his. Robert imagines he must sound unsteady and confused as he asks for it straight, but if he does, his companion makes no comment.

Glass in hand, the amber liquid swirls with his unguarded nerves, a sensation he couldn't understand. There was no point to being nervous, he is here to avoid any talk of an infamous meeting with an unmarried young lady (with whom he is not acquainted) reaching the ears of the press and yet, he felt like he was about to face some kind of trial.

"There is something I ought to make clear before my wife and daughter join us. Mrs Levinson is completely unaware of your meeting with my daughter this morning and I, and Miss Levinson, would like it to stay that way."

"Of course." He takes a long draught of the burning tonic. _Not_ tell his wife, that does surprise him. He can understand why Mr Levinson might want to keep such a thing quiet since he has refused a potentially advantageous match for his daughter by not forcing Robert's hand, but to include Miss Levinson in that decision confused Robert. Had she not wanted to make him walk her home so that she could boast of her skills to her mother, who had no doubt planned it all with her? He wonders again if he had been wrong about her, she had admitted during their walk that her mother is rather a matchmaker when it came to titled young men, but she had not seemed overly pleased to admit her mother was strung that way.

"My health is, as I mentioned, unknown to both of them and – "

"I have already promised my discretion on that score Mr Levinson. Besides, I doubt it would be in my best interests to announce it to the world, you still have the ammunition to make me marry your daughter." The older man laughs, a strained sound that he cuts off with a half-hearted cough.

The room lapses into a quiet silence then, the crackling of the fire consuming all of Robert's attention. Robert doesn't mind that Mr Levinson is not an overly social man but instead quietly reserved, the quiet suits him. It also gives Robert a chance to drink his port and still his nerves before he is faced with looking into the intelligent eyes of a young woman whom he can't quite understand. He wasn't sure if his failure to read her earlier had been because her beauty had distracted him, not something he had ever encountered with women before, or because she was so artful that she was able to disguise her true being beneath layers of practiced flattery. In truth, he hoped neither was the case, the first would leave him in a potential predicament, and the latter would confirm his suspicion that his chance of ever meeting a sensible young woman free of the prejudices of their mothers was impossible.

"We ought to make our way to the drawing room. My wife will not be late, not tonight." Mr Levinson sounds rather resigned at the fact. His phrasing was subtle but the way Mr Levinson looked at him as he spoke, as if he is the reason for his wife's timeliness only confirmed what he already knew; he was about to meet a match-making Mama, and an American one at that.

The drawing room, positioned just behind the library, from the second door off the hall, is much brighter than he had expected, and much more peach than he had ever seen before. The walls are covered in a patterned silk that was a peach shade, the three settees are all upholstered in a slightly lighter shade, that is nearer beige. It would have all been far too much of the same colour, particularly with the heavy cream curtains, if it was not for the beautiful pieces of teak furniture that darker the whole room down, the result was actually rather relaxing. Robert is about to admire a particularly delicate looking cabinet when the door is opening by a footman.

Mrs Levinson has the most violent shade of red hair that Robert has ever seen, so violent in fact, that even amongst the shades of beige and pink that hugged the drawing room it can do nothing but be the point of his attention. Robert is now certain where Miss Levinson gets both her height and her beautiful dark hair, her father. Mr Levinson's greying streaks must one day have been a very rich dark brown. She also has her father's temperament, quiet in comparison to the outbursts of Mrs Levinson.

"You must be the young man my husband has kept from my knowledge until today. He said you were only marginally handsome, he was wrong about that." Robert is so completely stunned he just stands there as she carries on, her husband trying and failing to stop her. "And you are English I hear? Has he told you we are heading over the sea to London in just a few weeks. My daughter…" Robert raises his glass to his lips, here she goes, the matchmaking Mama.

"Martha?" Mr Levinson reprimands her again, this time slightly more forcefully.

"Oh, I am sorry, Isidore. You must forgive me Lord Downton, it has just been some time since we had company." Robert finds the smile he kept hidden away specifically for these occasions. It was the one he used when he cannot find the words he needs to describe the situation, because he is completely stunned. "Oh, and that smile is a winning smile, don't you think Isidore?" Robert keeps it plastered on his face, how quickly would he be able to get away tonight? Straight after the dessert?

"Thank you for allowing me to join you for dinner, please you call me Mr Crawley. I have also been without company for some time, Mrs Levinson. The same conversation gets rather tiring, does it not?" That is one thing he knows about tonight, with Mrs Levinson at the table it is never going to get tiring, he is going to have to have his wits about him. He chuckles silently into his glass at that, much like being at home then, with his own mother.

Mrs Levinson is launching into some story from her morning shopping about another woman stealing the dress from the rack that she had picked out for herself when another pair of, far more delicate steps, are heard in the hallway. Mrs Levinson breaks off midsentence as her daughter enters the room.

Robert had never a person who had been completely comfortable when it came to women. He had never flirted with that much ease, finding all the fan waving and revealing outfits to detract from what is really more important; good character and intelligence. He was certainly not someone who whispered suggestively behind plants and wine glasses with his male friends, as each woman was announced into a ballroom, appraising, or laughing at their attire and beauty. However, that did not mean that obvious beauty did not, and had not, attracted him, on different occasions to different women. He always danced with the woman whom had captured his attention across a ballroom, but despite his mother's belief that beauty and a nice frock was all that interested Robert all of these women had thus far been cast aside. The common factor being their inability to hold a conversation that showed any kind of intelligence.

With Miss Levinson's entrance into the room he is transported to those ballrooms, the pretty women, all of whom he had cast aside because they could not entertain his mind as well as they could his eyes. In Miss Levinson, he sees a beauty that is more complete. Matching the elaborate twists her hair is piled into was her wonder at the architecture in the cold morning air. Opposing the seductive bareness revealed by the gown perching on the very peak of her shoulder, before dropping into a puffy capped sleeve, is the way she had not missed him stumbling over his name, proving her observance. More revealing than the scoop of the neckline was her rebellion at leaving the house alone in a foreign country. Her eyes had been so much brighter in the breezy morning air as he had let her tease him, than the dark blue velvet that caresses her bodice.

With Miss Levinson, he had already seen hints of the intelligence. Tonight, her beauty was on full display. Judging by the beaming smile on Mrs Levinson's face his reaction had been noted by the person who had personally selected the outfit for her daughter to wear.

"Miss Levinson." He takes her offered hand and kisses it gently before he has a chance to assess his actions. He looks up to find her cheeks a warmer shade of pink than they had been. But in her eyes, he sees something different from the admiration that usually followed him making such a bold statement to a woman, he sees anger. Kissing a lady's hand is a statement he has only made on one other occasion, which he has bitterly regretted ever since, as the lady in question is now determined to make herself his wife. That was the usual response, but Miss Levinson, as he should have guessed, does not respond how convention might demand. She slides her hand rather forcefully from his and drops it to her side.

"I am not sure such gestures are allowed Sir, until a proper introduction has been made." She turns to her father, her head slightly tilted to one side, revealing a single ringlet of hair dancing on her shoulder. Mr Levinson clears his throat and introduces them as should be done. She had a way of beguiling him it was true, and yet Robert cannot help but find it intriguing. She is so outspoken she might appear to others as being over-confident and brash but Robert thinks it might have more to do with a defence, to protect herself from her own soft character. "And now, you may offer me a seat, or start the conversation with some comment about the weather, isn't that right mother?" Robert chuckles softly.

"Or, I could tell you how finely dressed you are tonight Miss Levinson, and lead you to the settee both at the same time." He moves himself out of the way so that she can properly enter the room (they had rather been crowding in the doorway). She advances towards the settee before stopping abruptly.

"You said you would lead me Mr Crawley, I cannot have you following me, that offers you too many advantages." He takes the four steps to the settee and sits himself down, she sits beside him, a coy smile on her face.

"How does it offer me an advantage?" He drops his voice as her parents stay loitering near the doorway at the appearance of a servant.

"Mother doesn't know." She whispers the words very quietly into the gap between them, she has angled herself so her mother has no view of either of their faces. The display of confidence is gone, replaced with the nervous circling of her thumbs on her fingers, and her gaze dropping to her lap.

"Your father told me." He lets the matter settle. His mind drifts back to that look in her eyes before. "Is that why you disliked me kissing your hand?"

"No, that was because you are far too full of yourself, Mr Crawley. You told me girls with matchmaking mamas were not your scene and yet here you are determined to flirt with me."

"I am only repaying your debt Miss Levinson, it was you that flirted this morning."

"I am unaware of my own abilities then. A minute ago, yes, I was flirting with you, but only because I wanted you out of Ma's ear-shot. This morning, no, that was simply an awkward conversation between two strangers who knew nothing about each other and were meeting in a strange circumstance. As a rule, I don't flirt. I would rather a man chose me based on my actual merits rather than those my mother thinks relevant. I am sorry if that disappoints you, but my life is mine to live and I will not have it ruled by what others think is best for me."

"Well then, you must enlighten me. What are your merits?" He knows the conversation is a strange one, he had never had a conversation with a woman before that involved her steering the conversation, it had always been him that has tried to diffuse flirting and move conversation to intellectual topics. He wonders again at the possibility that she is more skilled in the art of flirting than other women, whether this was her way of seducing him into being smitten. His mother would certainly think so, but then she would be prejudiced merely based on Miss Levinson's nationality. He was inclined to think she was not putting on a very good act, but that this was the woman she really was. Slightly nervous and naive, but fearlessly strong.

"Well, they are not for me to tell you Mr Crawley, but for you to find out. If I tell you, I only know that you like admiring my face and watching me talk, I do not know whether you have truly been observing me, which would be the mark of a better friendship. Would you not agree?"

"Indeed." He doesn't like to tell her that he would be more than happy to listen to her talk, there is a quality to her voice that he finds endearing, his mother would loath to learn it is her accent. As for admiring her face, he is quite happy to do that as well.

"It seems dinner is ready ahead of schedule." Mrs Levinson's call across the room breaks him from his thoughts. Ten minutes ago, he would have been pleased with the realisation that an earlier start would most likely mean he will be able to make an early get away, but now Miss Levinson has arrived he is not so sure he wants to. It is nice to be able to talk to a woman about common interests rather than his estate, his title, and how some young woman had 'always wanted to see Yorkshire.' It was pleasing to realise he isn't purely an object of marriageable age and status to every young woman in the world.

* * *

The orange and grapefruit cheesecake is slightly tart for her tastes and the sprinkling of sugar the cook had brushed over the top was not helping to combat the sharp squirts of juice that seemed to escape from the segments with each squeeze her teeth make. The awkward silence that hangs across the table doesn't help. Her mother was always a fan of using her mouth more than she should but it seemed that even she, after three courses, is at a blank for any more ways to embarrasses their guest. After all, there are only so many ways she can drop hints about how 'Cora so wishes to marry in England.' Her father had finally found his voice (something that was never used to combat Mama usually) to tell her she was clearly making Cora and Mr Crawley uncomfortable and she should stop. Since that outburst the four of them had sat in silence, nobody daring to make the next move.

Cora bites down on the final segment of fruit in her mouth as she busies herself piling the next piece of cheesecake onto her fork, maybe if they finished sooner this would become less awkward, she and Mr Crawley had been so much more relaxed in the drawing room.

"Miss Levinson," he clears his throat as he lowers his fork to his plate, wiping his finger on his napkin, "your father thought you might like some pointers as to the best things to see when you are in London next month."

"Yes, I would." She keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the cheesecake, not because she cannot look at him, but because she can feel her mother pausing to listen to her right, no doubt her eyebrows would raise in a clear expression of 'he is interested' if she were to risk meeting the gaze. "I have never been, and I would very much like to make the best of my time between social events."

"I know I like to make a tour of many of the museums and any special viewings that are running during the season. Personally, I am not a big fan of social events and much prefer the National Gallery and others. The British Museum is lovely for the history of England, if that interests you?"

"Very much. In fact, I am rather a fan of learning the history of artwork so no doubt the National Gallery is a must see. I think there is so much to learn in paintings that people miss because they forget to think about how the picture relates to the painter or sculptor. I could spend hours trying to decipher the feelings of an artist towards some topic or another based on their work."

"Well then, I will have to promise to accompany you to at least one of the wonderful museums the city has to offer. Is there a particular era of art history that interests you most?" She gently nudges a little of the cheesecake from her fork, if Mr Crawley is going to keep directing questions at her she will have to eat in smaller mouthfuls otherwise she will receive some lecture from her mother about 'being ladylike and eating attractively.'

"I'm not sure there is an era I like most. I enjoy comparing the same type of art, for example landscapes, done by different artists in different mediums. On the whole I like to learn about the artist from their work, it matters little what the work depicts." He finishes his mouthful and places his cutlery down, his plate clear (unlike her half full one – all these small mouthfuls really are slowing her down). She takes a larger bite while he contemplates his answer. She doesn't dare turn to look at her Mama, the unusual quiet from that end of the table tells her all she needs to know. She is either seething at the topic of conversation or delighted that Mr Crawley seems to be taking such an obvious interest, or maybe both.

"A little like Miss Elizabeth Bennet perhaps, an analyser of character but this time through the medium of art rather than first-hand knowledge. Let us hope you have a better skill than Miss Bennet otherwise these artists could end up being very misinterpreted." He smiles in challenge as he lifts his napkin to wipe his mouth. She is momentarily transfixed by his eyes, in this light they aren't just the plain blue she had thought they were earlier. They have speckles of so many shades of blue, a darker shade, almost navy, hugs the outer part of the iris. The part nearest his pupil is darker too, with light colours, that could almost be called white, in the space between.

"Firstly Sir, I would argue Elizabeth's shortcomings are the very essence of the book, are they not? And secondly, in the case of art, I think the artist had their own thoughts and feelings that seep into the painting but discovering other things, and what the painting says to you as a viewer of it, is often just as important as what the original artist wanted to represent. You can learn about both yourself and the artist when you study artwork. Just as Elizabeth eventually learns the truth about not only Darcy, but herself and her own feelings."

"Oh, Cora really, Mr Crawley does not want to hear about one of your silly art analogies." Cora feels her face flush red, she has said too much, what was she thinking contradicting a man at the dinner table, that was not lady-like behaviour. She spoons a much-needed mouthful of the crumbling cheesecake base into her mouth, letting the individual crumbs stick to her teeth.

"Mrs Levinson you're quite mistaken, your daughter has a standpoint on the subject of art which interests me very much. It is not often I come into contact with a young woman who is clearly so well educated on a wide range of subjects. Her conversation does you and your husband great credit." Cora swallows in astonishment as her mother gulps uncomfortably before spreading a wide smile across her face, aimed at Cora. The single raise of the eyebrow makes Cora drop her fork slightly untidily onto her plate, that was her mother's look of approval. Mr Crawley had praised her, both of them in fact, and now her mother was going to start weaving the web to ensnarl him before Cora even knew if he was half sensible, and all this wasn't some kind of persona he used for capturing young women. After all, complimenting the parents was usually the first step towards getting approval and cornering a young lady into an engagement.

"Mr Levinson and I made it our aim that Miss Levinson would be well educated. She has been instructed on mathematics, literature, the sciences, politics, geography, history and art. The latter two have always been her favourites, but her ability with figures is almost as good as any man's." Cora keeps her gaze fixed on her hands in her lap, what was her mother thinking? She was always told to be modest and try to keep conversation open, 'don't talk about yourself', and yet here was her mother boasting about all things she has done. It seemed the 'no man wants a wife more intelligent than him' was not a factor anymore. "In fact, Isidore, didn't you always say that you wished it was Cora, and not Harold, set to take over the business as she almost always got better mathematics marks?"

"I might have done once, but Harold improved greatly after a while. I think, perhaps, we can forgo the split tonight, if you agree Mr Crawley, and drink with the ladies?"

"Um, yes, yes. Very well." Cora wants to cry at the sound of confusion in his voice. Why did her mother always open her mouth without thinking? Now she has made their guest uncomfortable just when things were beginning to become easier. She ignores the prickling behind her eyes, the sting that has no place. After all, why should she be bothered how comfortable Mr Crawley is? She shouldn't, and yet the stinging tells her that she is, why? Her subconscious conjures up an image of those eyes, the peace the shades of blue seemed to bring her over the dinner table. She walks quickly towards the door, ignoring her mother's calls. _You cannot fall for a pair of eyes, Cora!_ She has known him all of a day and she seems unable to push the kindly look in his eyes away, no other man had ever looked at her with such a soft expression before. _Eyes are not a valid reason for marriage Cora! Marriage? Where on earth has that come from?_

"Miss Levinson?" A soft call from behind her forces her to turn and evaluate the world around her. It finally has the advantage of also pushing the image of his eyes away. She avoids looking at him as she turns slowly. A footman stands by the door, both her parents looking at her expectantly.

"I will have a small glass of the white wine from dinner, please." The footman nods his head and exits. Her parents immediately move in the direction of the card table, as was their custom after dinner. Cora stands awkwardly beside Mr Crawley, looking at the floor. "You would be more than welcome to join my parents for cards, I am more than happy to sit quietly here."

"They have already asked, I declined the offer. I hoped that we might discuss your fascination with art a little more?" He gestures to the settee just behind them and she lowers herself gently onto the edge. Was he being nice, not wanting her to sit alone? Or was he genuinely interesting in what she has to say?

"I am not sure my company will be as interesting as you might hope Mr Crawley, I am not used to entertaining people after dinner, usually I sit with my drink and a book while my parents play cards."

"Is not extensive reading the way in which accomplished women improve their minds?" Cora cannot help but smile and let her eyes drift up to rest on his cravat.

"So, you have read the book, not just heard the outline of the plot?" She had to admit, it surprised her slightly that a young man had ventured to read Jane Austen's work. All the men she had met before knew the story but could not actually boast of having read the work.

"Of course. They portray a history of society that is very intriguing, because it is the representation of a society written by a woman. The characters are also remarkably sketched and unique, but it is the unjust situation of it all that speaks to me. Even in Miss Bingley, you see that she is confined by the expectations of society. And then, I look around myself and find a system that is unchanged, maybe even worse, and I grow annoyed."

" _You_ grow annoyed?" Cora couldn't understand that. He is right that society has seen no improvements, a woman's name is made by her marriage and her husband, but why is he annoyed about that?

"Yes, because it is worse now. Now a marriage between two people is not just a battle for a woman to get herself a good name, but men also are greatly frowned upon if they choose to marry outside of the ton. I am not saying Elizabeth would have settled easily into being Mrs Darcy and all it entailed, but she would never have been cut off because Mr Darcy would have maintained his social status despite his choice of bride. That wouldn't happen now, a man choosing to disrespect his family and choose a bride like that would be seen as being rebellious, with an unstable character. Instead of the world moving forward, and giving women more say in their choices, we have managed to further restrict options for everyone." She lets her gaze meet his and is surprised to find the warmth that had coloured just above his neck as he spoke has risen into his cheeks as well.

"You're very animated about that Mr Crawley, almost as though you have some personal injury to relate regarding choices of bride?"

"No, not at all. But perhaps Miss Austen inspired me without my knowing. I always hoped that I would be lucky enough to meet a young woman, whom I at least liked, to marry. But the more I move through the world the more I come to realise that is never likely to happen, it makes me annoyed with society."

"I am not sure there is much I can say to that Sir." She lets her gaze fall back to the lap, where her gloved hands seem quite unable to exist without twisting about each other. Why does it relieve her so much that he doesn't have some past romance that has left him unhappy? And why does it make her feel slightly breathless that he has admitted to wanting to like the women whom he chooses to make his wife? She was being exceptionally childish about him, just because he speaks nicely, has read Jane Austen and has nice eyes. None of those are reasons to get hung up on him, she has months ahead of her enjoying the London season with hundreds of other men, she would not be blinded by the charm of Mr Crawley, who could, for all she knew, turn out to be her Mr Wickham rather than her Mr Darcy.

Thankfully, her drink arrives and her hands are at last occupied so they do not have to fidget in her lap. She takes a reassuring sip in the silence that follows its arrival. The conversation returns to much safer, and less revealing, topics as they discuss various points of art and some history. It surprises her how he takes the alternative views to her own just to prolong the discussion on a few points, even if he actually agrees with her point, which he admits shyly afterwards.

She is dying to ask what he is expecting from a woman he could like enough to consider marrying but her own brain reminds her she is getting far too carried away too quickly. She is not likely to be the kind of woman Mr Crawley is looking for. He himself had said that society expected so much of marriages these days, no doubt he has expectations to fill. Marrying an American was unlikely to fulfil those of a son of an Earl. Besides, she knows well enough it is far too forward, and flirtatious (two things she hates being) to ask him what he wants his future wife to be like. Besides, her mother had already dropped too many hints during the earlier part of dinner, it would not be good to resurrect all of that in Mr Crawley's memory.

When her father rises from his seat at the card table, Cora finds herself being startled from the little world of their conversation. She had forgotten that her parents were even in the room. A glance at the clock is necessary for her to ascertain the time. She is surprised that it reads almost half past eleven, dinner had finished at ten, which meant she and Mr Crawley had talked for almost an hour and a half.

"Oh goodness, I really ought to have excused myself some time ago Mr Levinson, I am sorry if I've kept you from your rest." Mr Crawley hurriedly places his glass on a nearby table, bids her mother a goodnight and his thanks, turns to her with a pleasant smile and his pleasure at their conversation before he follows her father to the door.

"Your father really is too restless sometimes. How are you going to manage to charm the young man if he gets driven away all the time?"

"Oh, mother really, we have only just met and spoken together for little over an hour, why must you hear wedding bells?"

"Because, Cora dear, I saw the looks on his face. Which is something I want to talk to you about, you cannot sit staring at your fingers all the time, it is rude and, more importantly, you have a pretty face and nice blue eyes that a young man like Mr Crawley should be allowed to see."

"And why is that mother, so he can fall in love with the lines of my cheeks or something?"

"I said nothing about falling in love Cora, you read too much of that Austen woman! But you do have a nice face and a sensible man wants a wife who will produce him good looking children. I know you shall say that a woman should be ranked on more than her beauty and I do not discredit you. But the world we live in does not allow for years and years of learning about someone, first impressions get you down the aisle, everything else happens after. Therefore, you must let young men see your attractiveness, my dear." It was strange how closely linked this conversation was to Mr Crawley's earlier. It had been these very confines of society that had he complained of, and yet here is her mother encouraging her to fulfil them. Would that work for a man like Mr Crawley? Despite his words, was beauty important to him as well?

"Yes mother, I will do better next time." There is no point in arguing with her, and she didn't doubt, knowing her brother and his friends back home, that her mother did probably have a point. "Now, I better go to bed, it is later than I thought." She leaves her mother alone with her second glass of whisky and heads out into the hall. She does want a good few hours of rest before her walk tomorrow morning. Now that her father has given his consent she was not going to let the opportunity pass her by. She passes him in the hall and kisses him goodnight. It is not until she is at the base of the stairs that he suddenly turns back.

"Oh, Cora, I forgot to say, Mr Crawley has asked if he may dine again next week. I said he could." Cora is pleased he hurries back into the drawing room, at least then he does not see the blossom that rises in her cheeks and the dazed look that settles over her eyes as her thoughts shift entirely to her memories of Mr Crawley's eyes and voice.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: So sorry for the long wait, I know this is about two weeks overdue, sorry! You might get a bonus update on Thursday though (we shall see how things go). So, we get some more cute Cobert and then a contemplating Robert in this chapter - I hope you enjoy! If you do, please please please review, it might very well help me to start penning the last third of this** **story. Cobert love to you all.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

The seamstress runs off once again, on another of her mother's missions, tissue paper and fabric fluttering in her wake. Cora stands staring back at the refection of a woman she does not recognise. The hat with far too many feathers and a blouse that, although in style and suited her, was, in her opinion, not at all appropriate for London. Red is not a colour that reflects a sombre and quiet nature, but one that rather blatantly makes you noticeable to everyone. No doubt, this is her mother's reasoning for the choice, but it is not one Cora will endorse, not this time.

"Mother, can I please purchase the orange shade, it is much more my colour."

"Purchasing the orange will not mean I will not also purchase the red. It suits you. Your dark hair is well complimented by it."

"The orange one does the same mother, really. Red is not a colour suitable for a woman of my age."

"But that is the point Cora dear, no man wants suitable, they want a woman that can capture their imagination. Which brings me to my next point. When we have your presentation gown made in London we must also have a red ballgown made too." Cora sighs and turns back to the mirror; her mother is a runaway train and there is nothing she can do to stop her. "Now you've finished complaining Cora, perhaps we can continue talking about Mr Crawley." Cora feels her neck grow hot beneath the high collar of the blouse, why did her mother always manage to get right under her skin.

Thoughts of Mr Crawley, let alone conversations about him, had been at the top of her avoidance list for the last day. After the dinner, the day before last, she was not at all comfortable letting her thoughts wander into territory that should be left untouched. If he hadn't invited himself to dinner a second-time Cora would have been much more able to forgive him. Why does he have to pretend he was interested when really, he is just paying off her father? He could make them marry if he wanted and he had chosen not, so why was he coming again? Surely it would be much more in his favour to avoid her parents at all costs?

"What is there to talk about? He came to dinner, had good manners and seemed intelligent."

"Well, this title of his – "

"We didn't talk about the title. All he said is that his father is an Earl. The Earl of…I don't know something beginning with G, I think." Her mother says nothing, just stares back at her in the mirror. She then seems to sigh resentfully and places her hand onto Cora's shoulder. Cora almost shrugs it off, her mother never touched her.

"You know I don't really want to talk about his title either Cora. What I want to know about is why every time I bring him up you go all prickly. Did he say something that offended you?"

"No, not at all." Cora finds herself quick to defend him, but when she looks up and her mother is still watching her, she knows she wants more of an answer. She pushes her hand against the hair at the nape of her neck as she tries to think of something sensible to say. "It's…well...doesn't it seem a little odd that Pa suddenly produced him out of nowhere when we have been in the city for over two weeks?"

"Not really dear. You know Pa, he never tells us anything." Cora refrains from telling her mother that it is only her that is kept out of the loop, that Pa does in fact tell her all about the people he meets on business. "Besides, Mr Crawley said he had only been in the city a few days." Cora swallows the lump that had formed in her throat, lying to her mother is something she isn't used to doing, and she has a feeling that it is going to have to be something she gets better at.

"Is that all that has been bothering you about him. Cora, really, you can tell me."

"That was all, I must have missed him saying that he had only been in the city a few days." She had not, of course, how could she have?

The seamstress returns which puts an end to the conversation. Cora is relieved at the sight of more fabric, she disliked shopping but talk of clothes was far more to her taste at this moment than talk of Mr Crawley.

An hour later, her mother pronounces her wish to visit the perfume department and Cora, given the option politely declines. She agrees to meet her mother in the restaurant of the department store in half an hour, after a trip to the book shop over the road with Emma. Her mother readily agrees and she and Emma step out into the hustle of Paris.

Cora instantly feels more content, the free circulation of air, and the comfort of her own clothes rather than a selection of items out of fancy boxes certainly helps. Emma walks just to her right.

"I am sure you're pleased to be free from the clothes Miss."

"Yes, very much so, and I don't doubt you're pleased you no longer have to respond to mother's demands." Emma smiles, as Cora laughs, but then shakes her head.

"Your parents are very reasonable employers Miss and without them I wouldn't be seeing Paris, or London."

"No, of course not. You're right." Cora found it easy to forget sometimes that this woman she had taken into her confidence, her friend, was paid by her father and was thankful for the work. Cora crosses her hands uncomfortably and is pleased that a gap in the carriages racing past allows them to cross.

She had noticed the tiny book shop, tucked between another one of Paris's boutiques and an everyday bakery on her first trip into the city but so far had not had a chance to visit. A bell inside the door chimes as it swings past forty-five degrees and an elderly gentleman stands from his stood behind the desk and greets them. They both return the gesture.

Cora is taken aback by the smell. It is not the smell of new books, fresh from the printer, but the smell of dated books. The musky, woody scent that she had always associated (and loved) about books, but never smelt in a pungency anywhere near this. Craning her head, she can see the particles of dust that cling to the books on the highest shelves and the faded spines that adorn more than half of them. On the lower shelves are the newer copies, the brighter leather spines free from the collecting mites.

She can feel the eyes of the salesman on her back as she turns for the shelf of novels, thumbing the spine of the first that she sees written by Émilie Zola. He is a French author she had been following the works of for the past few years. He was currently seeming to extend his never-ending series Les Rougon-Macquartand had recently published the fifteenth book in the series, La Terre, meaning 'The Earth'. She scrolls her finger over the next ten or so spines until she finds the one she wants, she pulls it from the shelf. Her mother had only ever purchased her the books to improve her French, and she must have read the first at age fifteen. She had raced through them, finally finding an application for the language she had learnt. Her mother would probably not be pleased to learn she was still reading them, particularly as some of the content of a few of the novels was of a more mature nature, and no doubt her mother had assumed when she had first gifted her the books, that she would either not understand, or never reach those points because of the language barrier. What her mother had overlooked was that she had always been able to grasp writing and reading French, it was just the pronunciation she found difficult.

She slips the book under her arm and begins perusing the rest of the shop, in search of something far more basic; a blank notebook.

She rounds the various shelves and smiles with some amusement at the face of the shopkeeper when he spies the book nestled under her arm. She walks over and places it on the counter. With a smile, she asks him to wrap it for her while she looks around the rest of the shop. He seems flustered at first, his mouth opening slightly and then closing almost immediately. She asks in her best French if there is a problem, he hesitates and clearing his throat asks her if she is sure she would like such a book. With a blush, and a dip of her head, she confirms that she is sure, clearly this shopkeeper was a well-read man and was not completely convinced she should be reading such a novel, in truth she knows he is right, but that wasn't about to stop her. After all, men were allowed to do far more than read things they shouldn't.

She turns away before he can see her embarrassment, wandering to the back to the shop. There is a small window in the central wall at the back and she takes a second to go and see the view. There isn't much to see just the alleyway that runs between the building and the back of the next. She turns away, wandering to the corner where she sees a shelf full of much narrower looking books, maybe those were the notebooks. She finds herself disappointed when she realizes they are just small books detailing country plants, animals and trees for various different regions of France.

She crosses the lengthy back section of the room and spies a small doorway she had not noticed as she stepped into this section of the shop, the high bookcases had blocked it from her view. The sign on the door invites her to 'explore more books' and she steps through the door, desperately hoping to find some notebooks. Her tutor had always tried to persuade her to write her thoughts on paper, and her friends had often gushed over their journals together but Cora had never felt the need to keep one. Moving away from home, and setting out on this trip that was essentially the beginning of the rest of her life had changed that. For the first time in her life she felt completely isolated and she had immediately remembered those entreaties from before and had thought that maybe she might give it a try.

Stepping into the small room, that due to the lack of a window, and a very low ceiling, is much darker than the other rooms she is immediately hit by a far more pungent waft of the aging books and the presence of another person. It was always something Cora found odd, that immediate sensing of another's presence without even having to see them. There is a large bookcase partitioning the room, hiding the figure from her view. Looking at what is on this side of the room she is certain that the small notebooks she is in search of are not present so she steps around the side of the bookcase, having to turns sideways to fit her dress between it and the shelves against the wall. The level of concentration this takes (to make sure she doesn't knock anything off) is enough to distract her from actually looking where she is going. Having dipped he face to look at her skirt, her hat obscures her view and before she knows what is happening she feels a hand grasp her wrist as her foot kicks at what seems to be a solid wall.

"I've got you." Her face bursts into a bright red blush at the familiar tone of Mr Crawley, and she is suddenly pleased the hat covers her face.

"Thank you." She slowly straightens and adjusting to her surroundings sees the stack of books propped against the shelf on the floor that she had caused her to trip.

"Is your foot alright?" She flexes her toes inside her shoe, finding them to feel fine she simply nods. She glances down at where his hand still grips her wrist, the sensation is oddly comforting and she is disappointed that her look prompts him to release his hold.

They stand awkwardly for a second, she tries to find something to say, he has just saved her from hitting her head on a shelf and possibly having the whole thing fall over and crushing her, she cannot stand here with nothing to say.

"Father said you're coming to dinner again next week?"

"Yes, I am. I'm looking forward to it very much." He turns back to the shelf where he picks up a small book he must have deposited as he had reached for her. Unsure how to proceed she moves a little further into the space, her eyes searching the shelves. "Is there something I can help you find Miss Levinson?"

"I'm looking for just a blank little book."

"To fill with all your secrets? I hear it is a common custom for women to do such a thing." She blushes and so does he. "Sorry, that was impertinent Miss Levinson, do forgive me."

"You're quite forgiven. Your assumption as to the use of such a book is correct, although I confess that this is the first time I have done such a thing. Before now I haven't felt the need to write down my thoughts and feelings." He senses her quiet on the subject and gently points her in the direction of the corner of the room where this is half a shelf of small books, each with a different coloured spine. He slips the little navy one he was holding back amongst them. She quickly selects a simple brown one and biding him farewell heads back towards the narrow passageway leading back to the other room.

"Miss Levinson, perhaps I might pass through there first and then assist you, we don't want you tumbling again." She laughs a little half-heartedly, she is not convinced she wants Mr Crawley thinking her a liability.

"You might be right." He steps around the piles of books to the other side and presenting his hand to her she takes it.

His holding her wrist earlier had been quite a sensation, the size of his hand and the firmness of his grip a blanket of safety. This time it is different, not just because she actually places her hand directly into his but because the hold is not one of sudden impulse but a decided decision between them. They had not touched, in such a friendly manner except when he had kissed her hand upon arriving for dinner the other night but that had been different for her. She had experienced none of the pleasures brought on by the holding of his hand because her mind had been panicking about him admitting to her mother that they had met on that walk. This time, she does take note of the stream of sensations that dance through her fingers. There is the curve of his fingers around the side of her hand, the pads of them resting down the length of her index finger. The size of his palm beneath her own exudes a warmth even through her lace gloves. But there is something else more exhilarating than even those things, the look in his eyes as she lifts her head, now safely on the other side. They seem to be dancing as they look down on her, the kind of happiness she felt reflected in them. he releases her hand with a squeeze and she looks to the floor as she thanks him, desperate to hide the silly blush she felt rising from her neck. Mr Crawley was quickly becoming a hazard to her sanity, she really needed to stop putting herself in his way, even if it was by accident.

They walk back to the front of the shop in silence, a distance between then that rather screams something had happened that shouldn't have, she hopes Emma doesn't notice. After all, it wasn't as though they had done anything improper, yet to Cora all those surging emotions that had overwhelmed her seemed incorrect.

She collects the book from the shopkeeper and pays him the money, not noticing his curious look because she is too unnerved by Mr Crawley staying stood right behind her, should he not be saying his goodbyes and carrying on with his business?

"Perhaps I might walk you to where you are meeting your mother, Miss Levinson, or home?"

"Thank you, but I am only having to cross back to the other side of the street, mother and I are dining in the department store."

"Very well, I will help you across the street then." Emma drifts behind them and Cora doesn't dare look back at her, she could see the little smirk drifting onto her face as she and Mr Crawley had appeared from the back bookroom, goodness knows what it looks like now. Cora doesn't let her eyes drift up to Mr Crawley either, and is relieved once again to have such a large hat which covers her face. He doesn't hold out his arm to her, which pleases her, she knows after the sensations she had felt in the bookshop she might not be able to return to reality. Reality is something she needs to keep a hold of, she cannot let herself be whisked away by fancy manners and a nice face. A man can hide anything behind a mask and Mr Crawley could easily be one of those men.

* * *

The words blur before his eyes, the black ink swirling. What did his sister mean 'enjoy every minute while you can'? Was she just referring to his imminent move back to England in the next two weeks or was there something else being hinted at here? He shoves the letter back on the windowsill where he had been stood looking out onto the city.

The annoyance he feels at therealisationof his time here coming to an end is layered up in a completely different way to how he thought it would be. The terror he felt at the coming season in London and the expectation of his parents that he is going to find a wife this year was still hanging over him and dragging his daily mood far lower than he would like. Upon reading his sister's letter, those thoughts had all unsurprisingly resurrected themselves from the tight box he tried to keep it contained within.

The thing that surprises him, are his thoughts on Clarisse. He had been so prepared to be kicking his heels about having to leave her, about having to leave behind the feeling of control he found with her. It wasn't just the physical element of it all (although that was definitely gratifying) but also the fact it is the only element of his life that is entirely about him. Clarisse doesn't sit and ask about whether he had visited this tenant farmer or that one, or whether he had thoughts on this investment over another. She doesn't fuss about making sure he pays proper attention to whichever young lady might be dining with them that night. Clarisse never asks questions, in fact she had proved to be a marvelousstabilisingforce when he had bad news. It isn't because she has made him forget himself but simply because she listens, she is happy to sit and listen to him for a whole night if that is what he wants, he had felt something in his life he had seldom felt before – human.

At home, he is always just the Viscount, the heir to his father, who because God shined upon him, is automatically boxed into a specific set of characteristics and credentials. He felt more like an object at home, where he is supposed to be surrounded by the people who love him most, then he does with Clarisse, a woman who receives his money in expensive gifts. He supposes it's the situation, away from Downton he can be who he chooses, he can be himself, something he never felt confident enough to be in Yorkshire or London. After all, who wants a future Earl more interested in books and literature than politics, and what woman wanted the man who would sooner spend hours walking his estate with his dogs, or riding his horse, learning about the families of his tenants rather than avidly planning all the parties they might host?

He unfolds Rosamund's letter again, scanning the page for the words that had made his hand crumple around it the first time. He finds them easily enough, Rosamund's script flows around the capital letter 'E' that highlights the name he cursed more than any other: Evelyn. 'Evelyn came to dinner last night, she was disappointed not to see you but, of course, she was delighted to hear you are going to spend the whole season in London this year. She really would be an excellent choice Robert…' the letter goes on listing all Lady Evelyn's qualities. Robert folds the letter back over, he has nobody but himself to blame for the attention of Lady Evelyn. That night two years ago, was a night he regretted more than any other. He had pushed it away for months, the whole last two years really, but it was becoming clear with his impending season and his mother's loud announcements to everyone that Robert was going to secure a wife this year, that escaping Lady Evelyn was going to be awfully difficult.

Lady Evelyn had been a close associate of his since he was a boy and this had led to a partiality on her side (no doubt encouraged by her mother) that Robert, he realised now, he had been stupid not to he hadn't, and so at his sister's presentation ball two years ago, when he had been eighteen, he had been silly enough to pay her far too much attention. For the whole season, he had danced with her more times than propriety would allow, and because of his dislike for social occasions he had probably loitered too long with her because he knew her, fussing too much over her person and contentment. However, the final, big, mistake he had made had occurred at his sister's ball. Evelyn had, rather forwardly, asked him what he thought of her and he had been stupid enough to be honest. He had told her how she had always been lovely to talk with, he had complimented her intelligence and then, well, then he had admitted something he had thought for years but kept close to his chest; he had complimented her 'pretty eyes', kissed her hand with morevigourthan he should have, and murmured about her making him very happy.

She had reported the whole thing to her parents, who had repeated it to his, and now everyone was anticipating that she is the lady he is going to settle for. It had all been made 'perfect', as his father had got into the habit of exclaiming, when Evelyn's only brother had passed away (he had always been ill, and it wasn't a surprise) and Evelyn had been made the heiress of the family fortune and estate. She was exactly perfect for the role of Countess of Grantham.

Until two weeks ago, she had been the woman he had pictured by his side, she had been the woman he intended on asking for this season. Evelyn would be easy enough to live with, and although he would value her being a little less vain andself-centredhe had thought that would pass with time. He might even be able to get her to appreciate the countryside more than London. But, he hadn't known Miss Levinson then. When two weeks ago, a mention of eyes made his mind drift to Evelyn's, he now found it drifting to a pair of blue ones. And once, when he had thought of intelligence in a woman he had thought of how he and Evelyn shared so many views on so manty different topics, now he thought of how Miss Levinson challenged his opinions andnever exactly agreed with his point, she always had her reasons for her opinion, they were not exact replicas of his own.

It wasn't that he didn't think he could be happy with Evelyn, he knew that he could easily be content with her. She would perform her duties as his wife excellently – Downton would probably be famed for the best dinners and balls in the country – but the problem is, that isn't what he wants. He would far rather have a wife who would walk with him and be friendly with the tenants, rather than looking down her nose at them because they can't dance a waltz. He wanted a wife who would share his literary enthusiasm and not just pretend to enjoy books to please him.

Miss Levinson intrigues him, there is something refreshing in her character, the honesty of it, that has completely taken him in. He did not much like himself for it, it would be far safer for his mind if he were to just focus his attentions on Lady Evelyn and perform the duty which he had been born to. And yet there was something there, trying to pull him unconsciously from the path he should be taking.

The sun finally settles beneath the city and Robert moves from the place he had been, in a trance at the window and out towards the door. There was no point dwelling on what is back in London, he would be there in a few weeks, living his mother's matchmaking plans rather than having to read them second-hand from Rosamund. Tonight, is about him, Clarisse had another night off because there was some visiting opera doing a tour or something, and they were performing at her theatre. He had been looking forward to the evening ever since she had told him, and he was even more pleased that it would give him a reason to forget the stupid letter that had angered him so, and hopefully help him to forget the delightful encounter with Miss Levinson in the bookshop the previous day.

He had been so taken aback at seeing her there, of all the places. The bookshop was his refuge from the world. It was where he went at home when he was lost to the world. He would lose himself in the library or walk to the bookshop in the village. He had been so pleased to find such a similar place in Paris. The fact he could understand very few of the words didn't bother him. The musky smell of the books, and the coarseness of the leather against his palm was enough to bring him the clearness of mind he needed. But, yesterday it had not. Her head had come so close to hitting the shelving, the instinct to reach out and catch her fall had not needed thinking about. In contrast, the strangeness it had evoked had filled his thoughts ever since far too much. She strength of her pulse, racing beneath her wrist had been easily felt by his sensitive fingers. The smoothness of her skin against his own had been apparent as well, but it had been the pulse that had made him somehow dizzy. He hadn't become lightheaded at the thought of it being her blood rushing beneath his grasp, but rather because the intimacy of that accidental sensation had made his mind jump to the way Clarisse's pulse would accelerate when he pressed his lips to her neck. It had been the connection of these two events that had made his cheeks colour, though thankfully Miss Levinson had been too busy staring at the ground to notice.

He had been kicking himself ever since and was heartily wishing he had never taken up Mr Levinson's offer of another dinner. It was becoming clear he needed to distance himself from Miss Levinson, she excited more completely random feelings than he could control. He finds himself in quiet moments, thinking about her, he curses her one minute before imagining what it might be like to kiss her the next. The visions he conjured in this latter scenario are most certainly not wise, and he knows they are going to land him in a mess. He has a duty, to his father and his grandfather, to every Earl that had borne the title 'Grantham'. It is in his blood and bones and he is determined not to let a mere infatuation for a pretty face drag him the wrong way. How many times has he heard the word 'marriage' and 'duty' in the same sentence. Being an Earl is not about what he wants, it is about the people he has to look after, the people counting on him. They range from the poorest of the local people to the King's government and marriage was an important part of that, the first stepping stone to success. He has to choose wisely, not be taken in by his youthful preferences. After Paris, Miss Levinson will be forgotten, he will go to London and court Evelyn as he ought. It will be like Miss Levinson never existed.

The walk to Clarisse's is short, he had chosen this hotel specifically for that reason. She lived in a rather modern flat that overlooked the back of the theatre. He knew he was lucky to have seen inside it, most of her other male friends were confined to her dressing room backstage. It is not a large property, a small living space that Clarisse has covered with various fur rugs and bright blankets, a very small kitchen which often savoured the delights of baked bread or cake and a bedroom off to one side. The bedroom too was covered in soft furnishings but it was the colour of it that always shocked Robert most, the dark red painted on the walls was very containing and somewhat repressive. Robert did concede that her reason for the colour, the oddly romantic nature it cast in the candlelight was valid. She said that she liked entertaining some romantic nature to the encounters with men she thought good enough to see this space. She said it was nice to hope that maybe, one day, she would not just be the lady to whom rich men gave expensive gifts because of sex but because one of them had genuinely taken an interest in her. She said, in the worst days, her room offered her hope, even when the world around her did not.

The door is unlocked before he so much as presses the bell and he makes the short trip up the creaking staircase to her door on the second floor. It fills him with a stupid, misplaced pride, that she has been looking out for him. She is waiting in the doorway to her rooms wearing a rose pink satin wrap-around dressing gown tied at the waist. Her blonde curls are freshly combed and dance on her shoulders in the way that Robert finds hard to resist. The gown doesn't quite cover the tops of her breasts and the soft rise and fall they make is enough to make him move into the room. She hadn't missed the way his gaze had shifted downwards and she clucks teasingly as she shuts the door.

There is a glass of liquor on the small table by the settee, and he takes a long draught as he rids himself of jacket and coat. Turning around she is sashaying across the room towards him, her head tilted to one side as she appraises him.

"You've had bad news." She pours some more liquor into the glass and hands it back to him, her fingers instantly moving to undo his cravat and collar. "Does your father want you home?" Clarisse had a way of reading that he didn't understand, she seemed to just be able to look at him and know exactly what he was thinking. It had unnerved him at first but he had gradually found it to be a comfort, it saved him the awkwardness of having to explain his mood, he could just launch straight into the reasons for it.

"No. Not yet. But my sister has been reminding me of my duty." He puts the glass down and pushes a handful of her hair back across her shoulder, letting his hand rest on the side of her face.

"To marry?" It wasn't really a question, but she looks up at him in that way that shows she wants confirmation of her thoughts. He can only nod, as her fingers begin nimbly making short work of his shirt. As she loosens each button she lets her fingers run ever so lightly across his skin, a sensation that never failed to have to make him think carefully about his breathing. "Well, you're ready for it I think. Have I not taught you about what it is a woman likes?" Her accent is heavy and husky as she undoes the last of his shirt buttons and lets her hands wander the extent of his chest. It was the accent, he is sure that does it to him. Every time he would go from being in control of himself and then she would say something like that and he was no longer able to think quite straight. "Why don't you show me?" She lifts herself onto her toes as she whispers by his ear, her soft lips touching his skin for half a second.

It is then that he finally cannot control himself any longer, he grabs Clarisse's gown between his hands and pushes it off her shoulders, revealing nothing but her skin, then he brings his mouth to hers as she falls onto the settee.

Yes, his parents are at home, eagerly awaiting his return and the next generation of Crawley's but they cannot control every part of his life. No more than Rosamund, Lady Evelyn or even Miss Levinson. He had two more weeks to live his life, the life he was enjoying. He will give himself these two weeks, to enjoy Clarisse, French culture and even Miss Levinson. He will enjoy the pleasures Clarisse has to offer him. He will allow himself the fantasies of Miss Levinson, the flirting with her, he might even go out of his way to please her. He could have the gratifications of these two women, albeit very different ones, for two weeks and then he will return to normal.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Sorry this is so so late, i hope you all enjoy it. I hope those of you celebrating Christmas have had a lovely time. Please leave a review if you enjoy this. Cobert love...**

* * *

He doesn't know why he does it, but he has made a vow to himself that he is going to enjoy his last week in Paris, free from the constrictions of his parents and the British marriage market. And this was part of that, enjoying Miss Levinson's company, because once he reaches London everyone will be forcing he and Lady Evelyn at each other and his new life will begin.

He pushes that thought away, it is not important, not until he was on that boat back across the channel. This bright early morning he is going to interrupt Miss Levinson's walk. He had observed her habits from the safety of a various shops and doorways for the last three days and is sure of the route she will take.

He waits on the corner of the street next to the one Miss Levinson was living in, not wanting to attract the notice of her parents, any other members of the staff or even the people living around, (the French are gossips) and he was not risking the reputation of Miss Levinson, not when it is for his own selfishness that he is meeting her anyway.

He twists his hands behind his back, in his pockets or with his jacket. He turns about on the spot and starts at every set of feet he hears approaching. Twice he looks up from beneath his hat expecting to see Miss Levinson and her maid, only to be confronted by an old lady and a young couple heading to work. He checks his watch again, maybe she wasn't walking this morning?

There is a group of stones clinging to the bottom of curb and he steps out into the road to push them about with his toe. He listens to the knocking sounds they make, and tries to think about the physics of how they bounce off each other, but keeping his attention fixed on them is not enough of a distraction in the long run and before he knows it he is just fidgeting by the kerb because it is something to do while he waits.

What seems like an agonisingly long time later, in reality it is just a few minutes, two sets of footsteps and the tones of two American accents reach his ears. He looks up from the ground to see her rounding the corner at the end of the street. Her large hat marks her out as a wealthier member of society, and he is surprised to find her looking so well dressed. On her morning walks she usually looked a lot less fancy. Her jacket is buttoned down the front with dark plum shade buttons that match the trim on the collar and hem. The lace trim on the hat is the same dark shade, as is the skirt that swishes by her ankles. The jacket itself is a light lilac which matched with the curls of her dark hair, that peak beneath the confines of the hat, make for a very pretty picture.

What he doesn't expect is both her and her maid lifting their gazes at the exact same moment and staring at him before looking at each. The maid smiles widely, while the sides of Miss Levinson's cheeks turn a bright red. She turns back to him and clears her throat.

"Mr Crawley." He tips his hat and walks towards her.

"Miss Levinson." Her maid takes a step back as he walks to her side. There is a strange expression masking her features. She twists her hands uncomfortably over the straps of her small bag as he falls into step beside her.

"Mr Crawley, I don't wish to state the obvious but I am not sure this is wise. If someone were to spot us – "

"They won't. Besides, we are acquainted now, there is nothing wrong in my joining you after having met you by accident is there?" She seems to hesitate, her face lifting so she can see him and then refocusing her attention back on the ground.

"It is not by accident though is it Sir?" This time he feels his own cheeks redden. His eyes widen as he hangs his head. Had she seen him watching her? _What must she think of me?_

"I, well, that is I have been taking walks recently – "

"Sir, I will save you the trouble of accounting for it. Emma and I have both seen you loitering in doorways and such. It was Emma that believed you were following me and made me dress up so nicely this morning because she guessed that today you would approach us. It seems she has worked out your motives better than I." She half laughs but the sound drops away, when she speaks again, her tone is much graver. "I do not believe you mean me any harm Mr Crawley – "

"Goodness, of course not."

"But I am also aware that this decision to follow me must be made up of some emotion which I do not readily understand. I would like it very much if you would explain it to me. I do not think it fair that I should be followed without understanding why." Miss Levinson is unconventional, he had known that right from the first morning he had found her walking out in a foreign city alone. This young lady was not a young lady who is going to take anything but the truth for an answer.

"Well, it is all rather complicated. But the, um, well…the most important factor is that you interest me, Miss Levinson. And I hoped by contriving a meeting we might talk more about novels and poetry and maybe a little about theatre and your love for history." He looks across to her hesitantly, only to see her fingers twisting over each other, her head doesn't lift and because of her hat he is completely unable to see her face. They walk along in silence for a few seconds.

"Mr Crawley, I think maybe you're trying to flatter me. The truth of the matter is, I cannot believe that a young man such as yourself, who is enjoying his last weeks of freedom before duty and marriage call him home, would want to spend it waking up early to talk with a girl like myself about literature and theatre. You said the matter is complicated, I would like to hear the long version, not your flattery." He is about to say she is not a girl, but a young lady, but that was exactly the flattery she had just condemned. He takes a long breath, and gulps back the sensation to turn and run. _Who is this woman, to not want a compliment?_

"You are right that home and duty are calling me and you are also right that this is my last week of freedom, if that is the term we are using. But you misunderstand the honesty on my so-called flattery. I am a man out of place at home, Miss Levinson, a fish out of water. I am meant to live for balls and politics, to want a bride who can waltz and walk down the stairs with a book on her head. The truth is, I prefer books and history to balls and politics and I would rather my wife took an interest in the estate and the people that depend on the house, and loved reading instead of being able to drop into a flawless curtsey. You have given me conversation I crave at home and while we are here, and I have a week or so before I leave, I would like to embrace that, if you will allow me? Because once I am home my life is forever lost to me, it must be lived how others wish it to be lived." She looks up at him this time, and nods her head slowly.

"Of course, I enjoy our conversations too." They fall into a silence then. He is not sure how to proceed and he can tell by the way her teeth chew at her lip that she is mulling over what he has told her. "Sir, there is one thing I would suggest you do to help yourself. You are being rather pessimistic about your situation and believe me, you have my sympathy, I know what parental expectations can be like. But I do think, as with everything in life, there are advantages you might have missed. I am not going to lecture you on how much more fortunate you are than most of the people in the world, we have both heard that a thousand times and we are both well aware money does not necessarily bring happiness. But, there must be some positives to taking a wife, even if you have to comply with your parents wishes? Think about those, and the bits of being back in London that you will enjoy, the library and the bookshops maybe?" He laughs softly at that, and their gazes meet as she smiles. She is right, he knows that, but it does not mean the agonies of it all do not sit resting in his mind.

"Speaking of which, have you started filling the little blank notebook you purchased the other day?" She raises her eyebrows and her lisp quirk slightly upwards very quickly. He might have classed it as coquettish if it had come from Clarisse, but this is Miss Levinson.

"That would be telling, Sir, and a woman mustn't give away all of her secrets."

"Of course not, but you can at least tell me how many pages you have filled?"

"Just two. Why were you in the bookshop Mr Crawley, surely if you are unable to read the book you would be better spending your time more productively elsewhere?"

"Perhaps I would, but this is a break of leisure for me, the last I might have for some time, and I find myself most relaxed when surrounded by books. It is the smell of a book store more than anything, which settles my mind. That was what I was seeking the day I saw you, not a particular book. You, I noticed purchased another book in addition to the blank one, what was it?"

"Very observant Sir. Before I tell you, perhaps I might suggest you buy a blank book, it might help you sort out the churning feelings you have about your parents and the future they are asking you to decide upon."

"Are you speaking from experience? Is that what your book helps you to do, master your annoyance with your parents dragging you to England?" He knows that if she knew her father's real motive she would be far less angered than she is. Her mother might be trying to improve the social standing of the family but Robert is well aware that Mr Levinson is acting out of love, he wants his daughter well settled before his untimely death and he wants her to remember him as the father he has been rather than the one he is about to become.

"A little. I find it helpful to evaluate my thoughts and sometimes writing them can help. The book I purchased was by Émilie Zola, the latest in his series. It is called 'La Terre', have you heard of it?" He knows his brows crumples in confusion as she answers, he had assumed she had brought a reference book about Paris or France, not a full novel – in French!

"No, I have not. Forgive Miss Levinson, but this is a French novel?" She nods gently. "Written in French?"

"Yes, why would a Frenchman write in any language other than his native one?"

"It is not that which astonishes me. But rather, and please forgive how this is going to sound, that _you_ can read it at all." She blushes softly, and drops her gaze to the ground.

"I always found reading and writing language very easy to grasp. I learnt mainly from reading Zola's novels. I hated French lessons until mother gave me his first book in the hope of improving my language. It did far more than that." He just stares at her, he and his sister had always fussed so much about those French lessons they had taken as children, and the minute he got to boarding school, he had dropped the class. Miss Levinson, if this was her ability in everything she had been taught, must be far more academic than he is.

"I am sure the books cannot take all the credit. Your own perseverance and natural intelligence must play a large part." She shakes her head.

"The truth is, Mr Crawley, whatever mother says about my intelligence is grossly exaggerated. I enjoy history and art, I find it interesting but only certain parts of it. French is the same, I can read it almost perfectly but my speech is truly awful. Mathematics got too difficult after the age of thirteen and books became my only solace. I would fail a mathematics test if you gave me one to do now. Most of what I know and like about history and art comes from my own reading, something I had plenty of time for when my parents gave up educating me in certain subjects at fifteen. When I said, I love learning, that is true, I like to understand things I read in the paper and my political understanding has grown that way. But the truth is, if it involves numbers I won't be able to do it, and if it is something I am expected to know, I probably won't." She half laughs but then stops, a sadness creeping into the light that usually surrounds her eyes, clearly her confidence on the matter has been knocked at some point, probably by her mother. She fidgets her handbag and bites her lip.

"Miss Levinson, you seem to think you are a failure, I would remind you that you are not. No person can master every subject. You can read French, I would not know where to start! And as for not learning mathematics after a certain age, I know young ladies who were not taught more than adding up at age seven. Your education inspired you to go and seek information you want to know, that _is_ learning." She shrugs her shoulders, but he makes the decision not to press the subject anymore.

They drift into a seemingly obligatory silence after both of them have divulged so much information. Robert crosses his arms behind his back, and gets easily distracted by admiring her coat while he has the advantage of being so near her. Being this close to her he is unable to not notice the sweet floral scent that seems to waft with the wind. He recognises the scent his sister sometimes used, Jasmine. It has a highly sweet smell that Robert had before thought overly floral, maybe that was just how his sister had worn it though because today he cannot think of anything more heavenly than the sweet smell of flowers in the middle of the city. It is made even more heavenly by the wearer, he is sure. Maybe that is what is different, not the perfume so much as the woman wearing it, maybe Miss Levinson's own natural scent brings out the best in the flower's oil.

"Do you go straight to London when you return to England Sir, or are you bound to your country house first?"

"I am not sure. I would like to spend a little time in Yorkshire before the Season but I am not sure that will be possible, I imagine my parents will travel to London to meet me as I arrive across the channel. When are you are planning to arrive in London?"

"Mid-March I think, if everything goes to plan."

"And do you know where you are staying?"

"Yes, we are staying with an old friend of mine, she married earlier this year, having travelled to England this time last year and is now the Duchess of Dascombe. Do you know her?"

"Yes, I think I have met her. Her husband is Henry Dodsworth?" The very name sends shivers down his spine, if he knew anything about that particular young man it is that his new wife was probably not much liking her new life.

"Yes, that's right."

"I have heard their seat in the country is very nice, and a castle in every sense of the word, but I have never been."

"I do believe it is very castle like, Isabella has mentioned how draughty it is on numerous occasions." He does not say what he knows Miss Levinson will dislike to hear, or maybe she already knows, that he suspects her friend's discontent stems more from Henry's character than the castle being draughty.

Lord Dascombe had been on the marriage market last year and everyone had known (he had never been very subtle), but all the sensible English mothers had kept their daughters well clear of him. He had a reputation greater than James' when it came to women. While Robert is thankful his own cousin is sensible to keep most of his exploits abroad and out of the sight of the press and his wife, the Earl of Dascombe was not that caring. Robert wouldn't be surprised to find that Miss Levinson's friend had been captured by his charm, ruined and forced to marry him, or if she had married him still a virgin she was now suffering the reality that her husband has moved from her to the next woman of his choosing without so much as a backwards glance. "She keeps hinting that she has big news to tell me, and I think she might be pregnant, but I am not sure." Robert says nothing, it all sounds about right. If the Duchess of Dascombe is with child, it wouldn't surprise Robert if the Earl himself was sending her to town to host her friends while he stayed in the country with whatever woman he had now picked up with. Maybe that was better in the long run, he muses, if Miss Levinson is staying at the house. Robert didn't like the thought of the Earl fawning all over Miss Levinson, and he would be sure to try something indecent.

"Well, you will find out when you reach London no doubt. I ought to wish you a good day Miss Levinson, time is moving faster than I might like. I shall see you at dinner tomorrow, in the meantime enjoy your new book."

"Good day Mr Crawley." He tips his hat and turns down into the street back towards his hotel.

* * *

Emma laughs at her across the room and Cora drops her hand in embarrassment. She had been rearranging a piece of her hair at the back of her neck, loosening a strand so that it fell from the elaborate style to rest on her neck. She noticed Mr Crawley looking at it last time he had dined and…and that was the problem. She has to get over this obsession.

"He will like it very much. I am sure there is nothing about you he would not like, Miss."

"Don't be ridiculous. I just like my hair like that." It is not a very convincing lie, but then she doesn't know why she bothers telling it in the first place, Emma knows her too well to doubt the true reason.

What frustrates Cora the most is that every time she gets close to figuring out how she is going to act sensibly and distance herself from thoughts of him he appears and ruins it all. After the encounter in the bookshop writing the two-page entry in her new little journal had helped her leave those emotions behind, at least a little. She had thought a little less about what his touch has felt like against her palm and had even managed to only think about it once in a day (when she allowed herself to re-read what she had written before bed). But all that progress had gone out of the window when he had joined her on her walk yesterday.

She and Emma had spotted him loitering prior to yesterday and to begin with Cora had thought nothing of it, it was just coincidence. The next time she saw him she wondered if he was trying to keep a conspicuous eye on her, and make sure she did not get into any trouble. It had been Emma who had joked that maybe he was desperate to see her again and it seemed Emma had been the one to be proved right. The irony, of course, was that she had not missed the fluttering in her stomach as he had approached or how much she enjoyed just listening to him talk. But then he had left so suddenly after speaking about Isabella that she couldn't make him out. He had said how he wanted to take the opportunity while he was still far from what awaited him in England to enjoy her company and yet, ten minutes later, he was running away from her.

She twists the strand of pearls that hang by her neck as Emma reminds her she ought to go down and await their guest with her parents. She takes one last look at herself. She had been very wary about wearing the pale orange, which could be argued as being a very strong peach, that her mother had suggested she wear. In truth, she had not been sure about the colour, but looking at it on now, she had to be honest that, although not as startling as her wearing blue or purple, the cut of the dress more than made up for it. The very fancy ruffling effect from the waistline downwards, with little bows embellishing the edges of the central panel of the skirt. The golden beads and sequins on the bodice make the colour less the dreaded orange she had thought it was, and more of a dusky sunset gold.

She hears her mother's anxious voice floating, or rather, bellowing, from the drawing room as she starts down the stairs. She seems to be loudly exclaiming about how 'my daughter is on her way' and 'she is not usually this late.' Cora spies the hallway clock, she is not late at all, Mr Crawley must have arrived early. She wishes she had taken Emma's advice and been in the drawing room before Mr Crawley arrived, it is so much easier to watch someone enter the room, from the comfort of a chair and a drink, than be watched. She hates people scrutinising her, and arriving after the guest was a sure way to make sure that happens.

"Ah, there you are Cora, at last." Her mother steps straight towards her and takes her elbow, her eyes are wide. "Mr Crawley has been here ten minutes already."

"Really, Mrs Levinson, I arrived early, I do apologise. Besides, if Miss Levinson had dressed in a hurry she might not be looking as splendid as she does now." Cora feels her cheeks burn incredibly hot which is only made worse by the way his lips stretch upwards slightly when her mother is not looking, was he smirking at her? "Not that she wouldn't always look very pretty." Cora drops her eyes from his gaze as her mother pats her arm encouragingly and moves towards her father.

"You don't have to say things just to make Mama go away, I am quite capable of fighting my own corner with her."

"And what would you think if I had said them for a reason that has nothing to do with pleasing your mother?"

"I would say that you are not getting your flattery under control Mr Crawley." She takes his lead in the direction of the settee, allowing herself a moment to calm herself while his back is turned. If he had any idea of the effect he had on her he would be running a mile, she has to get this under control. The problem is, he is so unpredictable that trying to keep her emotions in check is being made much harder. One minute he is racing away from her and the next he is making her blush scarlet.

"Please forgive my lapse of judgement Miss Levinson, I should not have said what I did." She arches her eyebrow as they sit.

"I am not sure about that comment Mr Crawley. You have just complimented my person and now you are telling me the statement was a lapse of judgement. Do I take it, therefore, that I am not looking as splendid as you previously mentioned? I am not sure what young ladies are like in England, but I imagine they would find the statement as hurtful as I do." She tries ever so hard to keep her expression hard, with a soft hint of the look of a woman insulted as she looks up from her lap into his face. Keeping her expression neutral is helped by the fact he looks away immediately as his cheeks turn red and his hand fidgets restlessly on his knee. Eventually he clears his throat and looks back up.

"I…well, Miss Levinson, I, well, I suppose that – " Watching him fidget with his collar is enough to break her self-control and she lets the laugh she had been holding in her lungs burst into the space between them. Now he looks up at her with a look of complete bewilderment which cuts her fun short.

"I was teasing Mr Crawley…it was a joke." Her laugh calms down as she speaks. She can tell he is not quite ready to believe her. His smile returns to his face shortly, and the awkward silence that had settled is broken by his voice.

"Perhaps we should leave this topic behind. How is your reading going?" She looks across to where her parents are busy looking at something in a book before she speaks, she does not want to risk being overheard, she had not told them about having seen Mr Crawley twice since last week's dinner and she does not want them finding out about it by accident, and certainly not from her.

"You saw me only yesterday Mr Crawley, so naturally I have not read much more than I had done so then." In fact, she has not read much at all, reading from the French took time, and effort, and recently she had been getting too distracted every time she lifted the book up – too many images of Mr Crawley floating in her head.

"Are you excited about London?" His look is charming and endearing, the wide smile and dancing eyes assuming her answer is going to be in the affirmative. Indeed, she wishes it was, she is about to see one of the greatest cities in the world and she is nothing short of terrified.

"I should be, but I fear I am mainly scared about the whole thing." She regrets the words before they are out of her mouth, why is she telling him this? She regrets having not lied when his mouth opens slightly and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, clearly unsure how to respond. Hosts are not meant to make their guests uncomfortable, her mother had told her that since almost before she could walk.

"Which element of it, the city or the society?"

"The society I think, I dread mother being all, well…like she is. You have seen it, _you_ set her on high alert, I don't know how I am going to cope when I am there surrounded by all these men. She is going to be pushing me this way and that and I will not have time to think."

"She cannot force you Miss Levinson. The final decision, the life changing one, in all of this comes down to you."

"It doesn't though, does it, Mr Crawley. You and I talked of this last time you were here in relation to Miss Austen. Hypothetically, If I were to refuse a man, no other man will offer for me and therefore as long as mother can persuade, or rather concoct some scheme with some mother who is desperate to marry of her son, my life is a lost hope."

"You won't need your mother scheming to get an offer Miss Levinson, trust me on that. I would bet that you will have to turn down at least one gentleman simply because it is not possible for a lady to accept more than one offer of marriage." She arches her eyebrows as her cheeks colour again.

"I thought we had agreed to drop the flattery, Sir?" He clears his throat.

"Yes, of course." He rubs the fabric on his knee again, clearly that is a nervous habit, before continuing. "You will enjoy London though, there is plenty to do and the variety of events to attend will please you I think. People think only of the balls, but there are the races and Wimbledon, the theatre and the galleries. And for you, Miss Levinson, there will be some of the most fantastic architecture in the world right outside your front door."

"Now that I have told you far too much about myself I think it only fair you tell me a little more about yourself, Mr Crawley. All I know is that you are English, your father is an Earl and you are planning to marry in the near future at the wishes of your family. I do not know even where you live."

"You're right. The conversation has been fairly one-sided when it comes to personal matters. I live in Yorkshire, at the family estate in a small village called Downton. I have an elder sister, Rosamund, and a Labrador dog called Cleopatra, although she is affectionately called Cleo."

"Ah, so you are the lucky one, being the youngest is definitely an advantage. My brother got away with all sorts of things that I never managed, he still does in fact. Are you and your sister close?"

"Not especially. I am sure you got up to plenty of things you shouldn't have." He lowers his voice and leans a little nearer to her. "We are talking about the young lady who takes morning walks without her father's permission." She cannot help but smile, she and Harold had enjoyed themselves as young children, and until their teenage years they had been very close – getting up to all kinds of mischief. "As for my sister and I being close, she has always rather resented me. But I don't think it is because I am the youngest, but rather because I was born a boy and my parents transferred their affections, along with the rest of the household, from her. It was a mistake on their part because it rather pitted us against each other from the start." It was easy for her to forget the significance of being male, in her home there had never been a favourite child, her mother had doted on Harold and her father had always been very fond of her. Or at least she thought he had, until this recent decision to drag her across the globe to marry a perfect stranger.

"So, you still don't get along now?"

"Not overly. The irony though, is that she is far more their daughter than I am their son. You should tell me what you think the advantages are of being the younger sibling and I shall tell you if you are right."

"Well, I know that when Harold misbehaves it was always I that end up getting blamed. If he spilt ink on his shirt, I should have been keeping a better eye on him, that kind of thing. And I am sure I grew up quicker than he did. The staff would still give him sweets and cake at an age where they had told me I was a big girl and wasn't allowed to snack before dinner anymore." Mr Crawley laughs and she tilts her head in question.

"That last one, about snacks is definitely true of the youngest sibling. Cook had a special little tray she used to hide in the cupboard just for me. I had assumed as a child that Rosamund knew about it too but when I asked her about it when we grew up she said cook didn't often give her food so that must have just been bribery of the future master or something." Cora did find it refreshing that however daunted she felt thinking about going to London, at least some of the people she is going to meet had quite similar lifestyles to herself. Not exactly the same, but sibling rivalries obviously didn't change much the whole globe round. "And thinking about it, I do think I used to get Rosamund in trouble but who knows if that was because I was the future master or because she should have known better. I think in the nanny's eye it was because I was the youngest and Rosamund should have been watching me or something along those lines. With my parents, I think it was the pressure that had surrounded producing an heir and then I finally arrived in the world and they could not help showing their devotion. I wish Rosamund and I were closer; I think we are reaching a stage in our lives where it would be nice to have someone I could talk to who knew exactly what I meant, who knew all about Downton and Father and…well all of it." Cora watches as his mouth seems to be drawn into a thin line, his brow creasing and his palms rubbing anxiously together as he thinks about his sister. "What about you and your brother, do you get along?"

"We did, for a very long time, but then he went away to school and came back very…very like a teenage boy I suppose. And now he is seventeen and thinks he is twenty. We have had such different experiences now that the things that used to bond us are insignificant." She holds back the small lump in her throat, the lump that reminds her she is with-holding the truth. It was not so much the different experiences that had pulled them apart as it was her brother's attitude to women. He had come home from his schooling with a very patriarchal view on women and had, at age seventeen a reputation that her parents would never be able to squash. It had not helped Cora, of course, because it had made her mother's demands for them to travel to England more palatable to her father. Even her father could see that her reputation was being tainted by merely being Harold's sister and perhaps that had been the reason he had agreed to travelling to London this year, despite having told her mother for years that he was never going to allow it. Her anger at Harold only increases, if this was the reason her father had capitulated she will have to write him a very angry letter.

"You suddenly look very tense Miss Levinson, are you feeling well?" She nods her head slowly as she looks down into her lap, taking a second to compose herself.

"Perfectly, thank you. I am just getting a little hungry." He seems to accept her white lie just as the butler enters to announce dinner. Cora takes a deep breath as she stands, talking to Mr Crawley alone is one thing, but with her mother sitting at the table this was definitely going to become like last time, awkward.

"Don't panic Miss Levinson, I am used to deflecting matchmaking mama's." She opens her mouth to ask him how on earth he knows that is what she is been thinking about, but he answers the questions before she says it. "Your little sigh, and the glance towards your mama, gave you away." She lets him lead her into the dining room, her heart getting ever closer to the danger of


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: First off, I want to apologise for how long this has taken, time just seems to fly away. Secondly, i would like to thank everyone for the reviews that have been left on this work, and others in the last few weeks. I have read them all, although I am sadly out of the habit (and short of time) for replying to them individually. I hope you like this chapter. It is a fair bit of internal monologue for which I apologise but it is necessary to bridge the story. As ever, please leave a review, it might encourage me to get on with chapter 17! Cobert love to you all.**

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

She had known the dinner was going to be terrible. She has predicted that before she had walked into the room. Yet, it had never occurred to her that the words that were going to cause her such pain would be uttered by someone other than her mother. She certainly never thought she would be having a sleepless night over the words a man she had only met two weeks before, had uttered over a dinner table. But here she is, staring at the canopy of the bed at half past four in the morning, her eyes having only shut when the scullery maid had pushed into the room half an hour ago, to light the fire. She shifts onto her side, burying her face between the pillows as the pattern of the canopy drifts into those words that resound in the back of her head. She hates herself for it all, that is the real problem.

It shouldn't matter, Mr Crawley is a complete stranger. Yes, he has been nice to her and his conversations with her have been lively and intellectual but that does not account for the depth of her regard, the naivety that has kept her awake all night. Because that is all it is at the end of the day, her stupid young girl side trying to make her believe the first man she has ever met and liked would have the same preference to her. Life does not work like that and maybe one sleepless night is worth it, if it will allow her to forget this whole thing ever happened and allow her to move to London with a more realistic expectation. Men will dance, talk and flirt as much as they like, as long as it pleases them, but they keep their feelings buried somewhere miles beneath the surface and it is time she learnt to do the same. If she is going to make a success of London, she cannot start dreaming of every man that compliments her dress or talks about books.

As much as she is angry at herself she cannot help somewhat blaming Mr Crawley, why had he been so amiable and flirtatious, if he is engaged elsewhere? Or maybe she has mistaken his flirtatious behaviour for simply making conversation, after all, she isn't that well versed in the ins-and-outs of flattery. Yes, maybe that is it, her naivety is deceiving her again. A small voice in the back of her tries to tell her that maybe he had been genuinely flirting with her, but she ignores it. A man doesn't flirt with one woman if he is in love with another.

Love? She feels her brow furrow at that, he had not mentioned love. In fact, every time she had spoken to him about the season in London he had pulled faces, complaining about his parents pushing him onto marriage. In fact, last night was the first time he had mentioned Lady Evelyn.

Lady Evelyn.

The words, hearing them in her head in Mr Crawley's voice, make her feel slightly dizzy, just as they had when he had uttered them over the dining room table.

Her anger bubbles over again, what had he been thinking? To string her along, even going so far as to meet her on her walk, quite wrongly, she might add so that he could have his fill of the conversation he supposedly craved at home. He had even said that he would prefer a wife who knew more than just simply how to 'drop into a flawless curtsy and walk down the stairs with a book on her head,' and yet despite telling her all of that he had failed to mention that he has already found this woman, Lady Evelyn – a childhood friend whom he has 'grown very fond of.'

She mulls over those last two words, and the look he had given her across the table as he had said them. His look had an essence of apology in it, which the part of her brain that she is trying to silence, seems to like playing in a loop. What did he mean 'fond of'? Is he in love with Lady Evelyn – that would certainly make sense of those two words but it did not make sense of his actions, or most of his other words. He had gone on about how he was dreading going home to face his duty to marry, in such terms that Cora had assumed whatever marriage he made was not going to be one based on friendship, let alone love, and yet he had talked about Lady Evelyn in very pleasant terms.

There is something about it all that does not quite fit together in her head. He has made a decision to marry Lady Evelyn and yet, despite talking about her so fondly at dinner he had never mentioned her before that point and all his references to marriage had been very negative. In Cora's head that means there are two possibilities. The first is that this lady Evelyn is the lady his parents have chosen and he is putting a brave face on it all, complimenting her just as he should. The second is that Lady Evelyn is his choice but she is still not quite the woman he thought she was, or really wants, and the pressure of it all is beginning to weigh on him as the season approaches. There is one thing she is categorically sure of though, and that is that Mr Crawley does not love Lady Evelyn. If he loved her, he would have talked about her all the time and she certainly would have come up in conversation long before her mother's very straight question about whether he had a bride in mind.

In her head, Lady Evelyn has chestnut bronze hair which piles delicately onto her head and dark green eyes that perfectly match the scenery of the Yorkshire estate Mr Crawley calls home. She probably rides a horse like a dream, unlike Cora, who panicked at the mere sight of a horse, let alone the suggestion to ride it. No doubt, she can walk down the stairs perfectly with a book on her head and make a flawless curtsey. These specific images of this enigmatic beauty hurt her not because they bring into question Mr Crawley's strange regard for her, and his plan to enjoy her company while he is in Paris, but more because they exist at all. If any man she knew back home had mentioned a woman she didn't know, she wouldn't start wondering over her qualities, or comparing herself to the mystery woman. Yet, after knowing Mr Crawley just over a week she is suddenly affronted by the thought she might not be the only young lady in his life whom he flirts with. That is what stings, the realisation that despite her better judgement more than just pleasant conversation was at stake, her sanity was beginning to seem questionable.

She swings her legs out of bed and taking the throw from the bed moves to curl on the chair by the now roaring fire, not only would it be warmer but the light will help her to write. She takes the ink from her dresser, along with her leather-bound journal and tucking her legs beneath her she writes. She starts with the pleasant things, what she and Mr Crawley had discussed before dinner, the looks in his eyes and how much she had liked teasing him. She makes notes on his anxious habits, how he had circled his thumb and finger around his knee. Then she reaches the dinner, and her loopy hand becomes spiky and harsh, she splashes ink across the page in a manner that her tutor would punish her for. Tears join the disjointed prose at some point but they dry up as the dawn breaks outside and her anger at Mr Crawley's dishonesty reaches its last full stop. The pen falls to the floor, the steel nib letting droplets of ink soak into the rug, along with her notebook as sleep finally claims her.

She awakes to movement in the room, voices in fact. Her throbbing head takes a moment to realise her orientation is slightly odd but when she does, and her eyes open to see the blazing hearth, she is very confused. Spotting her journal on the floor things suddenly fly back into perspective with the memory of a chestnut haired young woman mounted on a horse. She reaches down to scoop the notebook from the floor, gathering it beneath the blanket that rests over her shoulders as the muttering voices move nearer. One of them is easy to distinguish, the soft tones of Emma are to be expected first thing in the morning after all. When Emma's companion raises her voice a little, Cora slams her eyes reflexively shut – she cannot deal with her mother, not yet.

"Don't be ridiculous Miss Anderson, Miss Levinson and I have an appointment at the department store that we must keep. If she has not slept that is her own fault, she was probably up all night reading that blasted book." Cora bites her tongue between her teeth to stop her from speaking out, Emma will make her go away. "Cora, come on, time to get up." Her mother's voice rings by her ear but other than softly twitching her shoulders Cora ignores it.

"Mrs Levinson, I really do think we should leave Miss Levinson to sleep. The appointment is only for gloves and some hair pieces, can you not manage that without her?" Cora hears her mother make that reluctant sigh she always makes when she knows someone else is right.

"Fine, let her sleep, but this is the last time I will allow it, once we are in London she needs to be on full alert, I am leaving it with you Miss Anderson that she gets enough sleep." The next thing Cora hears is the door opening and closing as her mother leaves. Cora opens her eyes slowly, and lifts her head so she can see Emma.

"Thank you."

"Not at all Miss, my duty is to you. Shall I go and fetch you some breakfast?" Cora nods her head slowly as she sits up. Emma is a complete marvel, her job might be to serve her, but she is paid by her father, so questioning her mother was a brave step. She can feel the matted, clumped regions of her hair sticking to the side of her head, her head starts to throb more as she relaxes into more of a sitting position. She knows well enough that lacking as much sleep as she is the headache won't pass for most of the day, however much she eats and drinks.

She moves to her dresser, putting her journal safely in the drawer and returning her pen to its box, Emma will have an idea how to get the ink stain out of the rug. Lowering herself onto the stool she begins pulling out the plait Emma had diligently woven for her the night before. She takes up the brush and applies it to the section on the back of her head, where she can feel the hair that has fallen from the braid with all her tossing and turning has tangled around itself. The brush instantly meets with resistance so Cora reaches her hand into the mass to try and see if she can at least split the section and pull half over her shoulder so she can see what she is doing. She manages the task and firmly starts combing through the separated section.

Brushing her own hair is something she misses. As a young girl, she had combed her hair all the time, it was a routine before bed that allowed her to reflect on the day, and in the mornings, it allowed her a few moments peace before facing her mother – who even at a young age she had found overbearing.

The severity of the knots in her hair don't help her headache very much, but the heighted state of her headache does serve to keep her mind occupied enough that she doesn't have a chance to dwell too long on the reasons for her lack of sleep, and today she knows she is much happier with the throbbing behind her eyes and the dull ache at the back her head than the constant stirrings of her mind over Mr Crawley.

Emma returns promptly with a tray piled with various French breakfast patisseries and a large pot of tea. She takes over brushing out the matted hair while Cora eats. Lifting up one of the plates, Cora finds a piece of paper, which Emma seems completely unaware of, in a way that makes Cora highly suspicious. She is wondering if it is some ridiculous note from Mr Crawley when she spots her father's familiar sprawl across the sheet on one side. She flips it open, wondering what on earth he has written on a sheet of paper, unsealed, that could have been read by any, or all, of the servants before it arrived with her, that he doesn't feel he can come and tell her about in person. _When you're awake, I would like a word in the library. I didn't want to wake you._

Cora stares at it confused, why hadn't he just told one of the servants and got them to tell Emma? He could have even asked Emma to tell him when she woke so that he could come and see her. None of it makes any sense. What on earth is so important he is summoning her?

She folds the note back over as Emma announces some breakthrough with her tangled hair. Cora feels her head spinning, but not from lack of sleep or the headache that still persists, no, this time the thoughts the aching had banished come back in full force. Thoughts of Mr Crawley stream unstoppable from the corners she had tucked them in.

What if he has asked her father about the possibility of being allowed to court her when they are in London, or maybe he wishes to call on her this morning and take a walk in the city.

She gulps suddenly, another image entering her head, the chestnut-haired beauty her imagination had conjured up appears before her and stops all her other thoughts in their tracks, Mr Crawley has chosen a bride, her father's summons is not going to be related to Mr Crawley wanting anything from her. The gentleman had made it quite clear his affection lay elsewhere but that he is more than willing to keep her company, and talk of books and history while they are in Paris – away from the prying eyes that may report his actions to Lady Evelyn.

She focuses her attention back on the dull throbbing at the base of her head, and the permanent heaviness that has gathered behind her eyes. Focussing her thoughts in such a way allows the thoughts she desperately wants to keep banished to disappear and she turns her attention to Emma and dressing for the day as she adds jam to another croissant.

Descending the stairs twenty minutes later she curses her stupidity at getting so hung up on Mr Crawley for what must be the thousandth time since last night, her head really was thumping and it is sure to make the whole day a complete drag, particularly when her mother gets back from shopping. Today would be worse than ever too, because she had been choosing hair pieces which will mean Cora will be forced to model them all. Having Emma put her hair up in a simple style just a few moments earlier is hurting her head enough. The sheer weight of her hair is enough to make her head ache at the end of a normal day, so when it comes after a night of no sleep and trying on various pins she might have to resort to taking a powder.

"Ah, there you are. Your mother said you hadn't slept well." Cora just nods her head in acknowledgement of her father's statement as she follows him into the library. His desk is piled high with papers (when is it not) and a wealth of correspondence surrounds the pen and letter he has left in the centre of it all.

"Is everything at home running smoothly?" She lowers herself into the seat by the fire place as he takes a letter from his desk and sits opposite her.

"Yes, fine. What I want to talk to you about is this letter I received this morning. It is from Mr Crawley." Cora is pleased he seems to be scanning through it looking for the section he wants to show her because it gives her a second to compose herself from the outside, she cannot give herself away to her father – inside her heart still races, what has Mr Crawley written that her father thinks important enough to share with her?

"Oh?" She hopes her voice sounds right and that her father doesn't notice the slight raising of pitch at the end.

"I am a little bewildered by something he has written and I wanted to ask you what you thought of it." Cora's heart slows, although somewhat regrettably, so Mr Crawley hadn't stated anything major, her father was just intrigued by something. "He starts off thanking me for dinner last night and then goes on to explain that he is having to leave Paris this morning for London, some urgent business has called him home or something." Her father keeps scanning the page of text but Cora finds herself taking a long steadying breath, so he is gone. Her heart quickens, she will not see him now until they meet in London, and there was not likely to be much time for their pleasant conversations there, she will just be one more debutante lost in the crowd and he will have Lady Evelyn to chatter to. Her brain immediately highlights a far more rational view, with Mr Crawley gone it will allow her time to sort herself out, and to forget the naivety and preference she has let consume her in preparation for London. "Ah, here it is." He hands her the letter, his finger indicating the spot.

Cora takes a second to just admire the hand, it is masculine to be sure, but exceptionally neat. His tailed letters have a bluntness to their shape that Cora thought of as very business-like, as if he is always in a hurry when he writes.

 _I would like very much if you would pass on my regrets to Miss Levinson, and my anticipation of seeing her in London in just a few weeks. Perhaps by then, even as early as this morning, she might be on the lookout for another book to read, London bookshops are truly excellent but nothing surpasses the little one in Paris I know she purchased something from the other day, I frequent it myself. The atmosphere is quite unique, perhaps they might have something new arrive in the next few days that she hasn't yet sampled._

She looks up from the page to see her father staring at her expectantly. She shakes her head gently from side to side as she folds the letter back over. Her own heart is racing a hundred times faster than it had been when her father had admitted the letter was from Mr Crawley. She knew exactly what it meant, or at least most of what it meant.

"I am afraid it makes as little sense to me as it does to you, father. But I think maybe he is just being kind, we talked a great deal about books and we met in the bookshop he mentions the other day when I was shopping with Mama, I am sure she told you?"

"Indeed, she talked of nothing else the whole evening, she was very put out he wouldn't join you for luncheon." Cora laughs with her father, but her mind is miles away, how is she going to get to the bookshop and whatever it is Mr Crawley has left her without her parents finding out? And how on earth was she going to find whatever item it is when she gets there?

* * *

Flakes of the red settee flutter to the floor as his fingers circle on the back of it. He briefly wonders how many other children of the past Earl's of Grantham had done this exact same thing – many judging by the state of the settee. The movement is impatient with no distinct rhythm, perfectly matching his current mood.

His father sits at his desk, frantically scribbling, as he has been for the last ten minutes. He had not so much as looked up, let alone turn around and acknowledge his son's presence in the room. Robert had entered the room the moment he had entered the house, as the letter his father had sent instructed him to do, and yet now he was here he could not even greet him.

He knows that maybe he is being unreasonable, his father is a busy man, with an estate to run but as it happens the timing of it all had been so dreadful that ever since he had left Paris (an hour after his father's letter had arrived) he has been in a state of mild anger and this standing around looking at his father's back was only serving to make his mind churn with yet more annoyance.

His father finally turns, capping his pen as he does so and standing slowly and rigidly. Robert frowns for a second, is this why he had been called home? His father isn't well? But as soon as the thought enters his head it disappears again, Mr Levinson's shock announcement to him about his impending death had stuck with him more than it should have done. His father gestures for him to sit as he strides to the settee, he refuses, standing was much more comfortable after a long few days of travelling. When his father still says nothing Robert reluctantly opens his mouth to speak.

"Well, I'm here." He says it more sharply than he had intended but he cannot take the words back, nor can his father take back the look he gives in return, a slight raise of his eyebrows.

"Yes, I can see that, thank you." Robert says nothing in return, expecting his father to continue into the explanation of the reason for needing his return but he does not. Instead he leans back in the settee and takes a discarded drink from the little table beside the settee, taking a long swig and closing his eyes. The action fills Robert with dread, what in earth was so serious that this father was drinking in the morning?

"Perhaps, now that I am here, you might explain to me why exactly you called me back from the continent after you promised me six months abroad before the season?"

"You have a duty here, son." Duty, the one single word that seemed to haunt him regardless of where in the world he is. A word he was just training himself to forget with the help of Clarisse and Miss Levinson as distractions.

"A duty I am willing to fulfil, in _two_ weeks, when the season _starts_!"

"We thought it would be sensible for you to return sooner." Robert feels his eyebrows lift and his eyes widen inadvertently.

" _We?_ What does mama have to do with this?" A lump begins to form in the back of his throat, a bulge that seemed to represent the nearing of some kind of trap that his parents were nurturing between them. His father gulps, and crosses his hands awkwardly on his knees, a sure indication of guilt.

"Lady Evelyn and her parents are joining us for dinner in London, the night we arrive and we thought it best if you attended."

" _What!?"_ Robert's hand slips from the back of the settee and he gently shakes his head from side to side in pure incredulity, a small huff escaping his parted lips, he has well and truly been ensnarled by his parents' schemes. He should have known he was not being dragged back to England for anything but the furthering of his marriage prospects, he should have seen this coming. "I cannot believe this. When I received your letter, I thought something drastic had happened, but no, I should have known all this was ever about is marrying me off. For goodness sake, you write about it in every letter, even Rosamund strung a paragraph of all Evelyn's accomplishments in her last letter. What don't you understand Pa? This was my time off, my break, before I have to sit through a lifetime of boring dinners with this girl!"

"Oh Robert, you sound like a petulant child. It is high time you started focussing on the estate and your future." Robert's face grows hot under the scrutiny of his father's anger. He had never known his Pa to be so short tempered with him – sometimes with the servants but never with him. He briefly wonders if maybe his father was right, ever since he had finished school at Eton he had simply enjoyed himself, only focussing on estate matters when his father had asked. He had, maybe, assumed wrongly that if his father did not ask, he did not want his help. He had known ever since he turned eighteen that the estate was in a financial predicament but never had he sought out his father and tried to understand the mess. An advantageous marriage had been spoken of and he saw that as his current duty, all else waiting until he is the Earl – maybe he had been wrong in that manner of thinking. "Look at me Robert! Are you listening?" He realises, dismally, that his wandering thoughts had indeed stopped him from listening. He looks up, a sheepish look accompanying his red cheeks. His father's wrath burns steadily in his eyes, his cheeks speckled with purple what had he been saying that was so important? "I've had it with you Robert! I should never have let you travel to Europe again. You get back here and you can't even stay focussed on a conversation longer than a minute. No doubt your thoughts are turning over images of that cheap French actress you picked up with and by all accounts became very attached to."

"What!?" The word comes instinctively out of his mouth, as does the pointing of his finger in his father's direction. He had defended Clarisse to James before but he had never anticipated having to do the same for his father. How on earth did he know about Clarisse, he had been so careful, hadn't he? Then he remembers how the whole trip had started, with James, fussing. Fussing all the time about him picking up with a woman somewhere, teasing him about how he had gone home after his first tour of Europe two years ago (fresh from school) having only done sightseeing and nothing 'manly', soon after he had met Clarisse and the problem had been solved. "Is it James who told you? Because if he has been spreading gossip about me - "

"James?" His father splutters over the name in a tone missed with incredulity at the comment and a bitterness. "I wouldn't trust that boy with anything. No Robert, I was more sensible than that, I hired a few people to keep tabs on you. I wanted to make sure James' bad behaviour didn't rub off on you too much." Robert barely hears the last part, it is background noise, a hum, to the voice in the back of his head that screams his father does not trust him.

"Let me get this straight, you spied on me?" He does not hear his father's answer, or rather he does not choose to listen to what his father says. All he sees is red splodges, the kind he only has blurring his vision when he is very angry. Beyond angry. Through the red he sees blue and at first it puzzles him until the shade takes the shape of two circles, a dark hidden depth in the centre of them; eyes.

Miss Levinson's eyes.

His panic heightens and his pulse quickens. If his father has been having him followed he probably knows about her too. Worse than that, Robert thinks over that last hour he had spent in Paris before his departure, the trip to the small book shop and scribbling that message for her into the blank notebook he had almost purchased the day he had met her there. What if his father knew about that? What if the man who had been watching him had read that note. He would be in a position where he might be forced into marrying her all over again. Worse still (and the thought gnawing away at him most) is that he could easily have just completely destroyed Miss Levinson's chance of success in London. If that note was found it would easily be traced to her (aside from Clarisse, the Levinson's were the only people he had associated with in Paris) and this spy of his fathers was bound to know that. It would be spread in the papers and her chance of making a good match will be ruined along with her father's resolve to spare her the worst of his illness.

"So naturally when I heard you had returned to Paris, I guessed it was to return to that woman." Robert ignores the jab at Clarisse that his father strings on the last sentence of whatever he had been saying. Clarisse is what she is, defending her would not change his father's views in the slightest. But he had to know if he had compromised Miss Levinson.

"How much of my trip have you been spying on me?"

"Up to the point where you abandoned James in Vienna and returned to Paris. There was no point – " But, whatever else his father has to say is lost to him, he breaths gently in and out in that calming way that Clarisse had always told him was a good way of controlling his emotions and steadying his thoughts. Regardless of whether Miss Levinson ever saw that note he had left in the book shop, nobody had seen him leave it, so the connection would not be made unless Miss Levinson announced it to the world, and he could be sure that was not going to happen.

He notes that a silence has fallen in the room, his father must have stopped talking, so Robert takes the opportunity to ask about the details for this dinner he is clearly going to have to attend. Once his father has recited the finer points of it all Robert leaves the room as quickly as he can.

The heavy doors that usually looked so ornate to him, and he gazed upon with pride only seemed to feel stifling and without so much as picking up his walking coat he steps outside, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. The carriage he had arrived in not thirty minutes before is already gone, the disturbance the horse had made to the gravel being diligently flattened out by a hall boy. He does not turn to look back at the house, to see the looming façade jeering at him, the flag flying simply a flickering of a laugh as the abbey entrapped yet another young man into the 'duty' it demanded.

Instead he walks as fast as he can towards the heavy gates and slips out the park onto the road into the village. Cutting through the backways so not to catch the attention of the villagers he arrives at Crawley House.

The central location of the house (overlooking the village green) had always made his mother mad, and she had always chosen to visit her mother-in-law as little as she could. She said that the tone of the house, the very simplicity of it, brought the Crawley name to shame. She could not seem to fathom why her mother-in-law had not chosen the Dower House. But then she had never understood why the woman had been allowed to marry into the Crawley family anyway, she was decidedly 'middle class'.

Robert knew exactly why, his grandmother loved the village, and the village loved her. She still took daily trips into the town and visited many of the tenants despite her mature age – something his mother thought entirely beneath her. His granny is the only person that comes even close to understanding him, and he knows, without doubt, it is the qualities she possesses that he would like to find in his future wife. They are the qualities that he has always looked up to ever since she had knelt on the floor with him as a young boy in the nursery and played trains all afternoon when nanny was ill. She had fed him with nanny, rocked him to sleep, read with him and helped him with his lessons until he had left home for boarding school.

He pushes open the small wooden gate, and notes with some annoyance that the gardener has still not fixed the squeaking hinges. The garden is not as pretty as it is in the spring and summer, and Robert feels a pang as he realises he will no doubt miss its beauty this year because he will be in London. He hasn't even reached for the knocker when the door opens to his grandmother – she always came to the door is she saw him approaching, servants had never been her favourite kind of people – no doubt because she had grown up with just a cook and a housemaid.

"Robert! You're back." She pulls him into a hug before Robert has a chance to assess her. Releasing him, she turns quickly, again not giving him a chance to see her properly and marches down the hall to the little sitting room. The butler appears (no doubt from hearing the commotion) and tea is sent for. When she sits she keeps her gaze to her lap until he has fully sat down, Robert frowns, something was going on.

"Granny?"

"I don't want you to panic. It's nothing, I just had a little trip in the garden." She lifts her face and there, smudged across her right cheek is a long purple smear, most of it is covered by some powder but Robert can tell that it's a bad bruise. Just beneath her eye her face is slightly swollen, although not as much as he assumes it was.

"Little? Granny that bruise looks massive."

"Really Robert, it's fine. The doctor says there is nothing to worry about. Now, why don't you tell me about your trip?" Robert doesn't believe her, not for a second, there was something hidden in her eyes that makes him panic. Nevertheless, he does not push her, much like his own mother she liked to be completely in control (Robert thought this, and not his grandmother's ancestry, was really where his mother's dislike stemmed from), and instead ploughs forward with his description of Europe, leaving out much of the story, and the parts most important to him because they are personal matters not even fit for his grandmother's ears. Finishing his rather shortened account of his trip his grandmother tips her head to one side, narrows her eyes and then opens them widely with a loud sigh. "Who's the girl then?" Robert knows his face flushes with more warmth than it should, this is what he had come to talk about after all – to get it off his chest, why was he now suddenly afraid. "Given the fact you're hung up on her I'll assume she's not somebody completely beyond your reach?"

"She is coming to London for the season."

"I see and you met her in Paris I suppose?"

"Yes, how- "

"That was when you would no longer hold my gaze and, of course, all young girls need at least some dresses from Paris." Robert only nods, maybe this had been a mistake, his grandmother can read him far too easily. "Are you going to tell me her name?"

"Miss Levinson."

"The name sounds Jewish to me, where is she from?"

"America."

"Ah," and just like that a sparkle appears behind his grandmother's eyes and her smile spreads into a wide grin, "well, you never know fortune might be on your side." She pronounces the word 'fortune' with a particular glimmer of satisfaction but before Robert can ask any more, the tea arrives and his grandmother starts chattering away about all her plans for the gardens and the visits she had made to some of the tenants over the festive season.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: So, thank you all for the wonderful reviews and for pushing me to update. Here is the next chapter (finally!), with the introduction of three new characters. I would like to say now that Isabella and Evelyn are my own characters but Prince Christian is based on an actual grandson of Queen Victoria's and I have tried to keep the facts about him (including his appearance) as accurate as possible but his character, his behaviour etc are my artistic license. Sadly, he died, unmarried in the Boer War, but I have given him a place here in my work. He was not the first, nor the last man to die in war, and that is worth our memory.**

 **I hope you enjoy, and please leave reviews, they keep me writing. Cobert love to you all.**

* * *

 **Chapter 7 – March 26** **th** **1888.**

He straightens his tie one last time as the carriage draws to a stop. His mother is still, thankfully, too busy berating Rosamund for going against her specific instructions to dress in something different to what she is actually wearing to accost him with monologues about how to secure Lady Evelyn. His father sits stoically on the opposite bench, his hat resting in his lap, his hands gently smoothing the expensive silk within, his mind miles from the scene he is about to enter. Robert watches as his mother taps his hand lightly with her gloved one and he seems to awake from his trance, and turning his mouth into a fake smile he follows her out the carriage. Robert sighs once, tonight is going to be an ordeal, before placing his own hat on his head and stepping down.

A week had passed since the dinner with Lady Evelyn that his parents had dragged him home to attend. The season has not even technically started (it would 'formally' begin after Easter this coming weekend), but already every man he has uttered a word to has whispered to him about 'best catch this season'. Lady Evelyn herself was little changed since he had travelled to Europe, nay, since she had first known this marriage was what was intended for her. Out of the four events he had attended this week she had been present at all of them and each time she had clung to his arm and talked and talked until his head ached. The truth was becoming painfully clear to Robert, Lady Evelyn was not a good match. Not at all.

Tonight, unfortunately, is not the night he wants to be thinking about such things, because tonight's ball is being held by Lady Dascombe, the American Duchess who is hosting the Levinson family while they are in London. His parents, along with the rest of the ton, has been muttering about this invitation for days – nobody hosted such a large ball this early on in the season – particularly not a Duchess. They had all put it down to her being American and not understanding the English way of doing things. The ball was clearly to ease Miss Levinson into society, but as he is not supposed to know she exists, he had kept that knowledge to himself.

He hasn't taken his hat from his head to give to the footman, before she is beside him, hand wresting onto his elbow. He eases it off as the footman moves to take his coat, only for it to reappear straight away, fingers pressing into the curve of his elbow. He does not trust himself to look up and find the receiving line quite yet. He wonders in the back of his mind if the Duchess might stand on her own and introduce the Levinson's later but his hopes are dashed when he hears Mrs Levinson's distinct accent as she speaks to his mother – who incidentally has a look of terror on her face.

"I missed you so terribly at the Horsham's dinner last night." Robert smiles and nods his head as they take the final steps towards the receiving line.

"Um, I ought to pay my respects to our host. I'll meet you inside." She squeezes his arm and then skips off, Robert takes a steadying breath before turning to the American Duchess. Lady Dascombe is just as he remembers her, striking red hair wrapped into a sleek coiffure, her tall stature meaning she stands almost at the same height as him but her pale blue eyes look tired and worn since a year ago, no doubt the effect of being married to Lord Dascombe.

He does not dare to look further down the line, to see if Miss Levinson is stood the further side of her mother, he keeps his eyes trained on Lady Dascombe.

"Duchess, thank you ever so much for the invitation, I hope married life is suiting you?" It was polite, but he doesn't need her to answer the question to know the answer. Her face is drawn and pale, and the bright young woman he remembers from the year before is lost behind a fake smile and heavy jewellery.

"Very well, thank you Lord Downton. Might I introduce some friends of mine who are in town for the season, this is Mr and Mrs Levinson and their daughter…oh, Miss Levinson has disappeared…anyway, Mr Levinson, Lord Downton." She gestures between the two of them.

"Lord Downton." Mr Levinson sticks his hand out and Robert willing shakes it. "How has life been treating you since you left Paris?" The Duchess doesn't appear to hear them as she turns to her next guests.

"Fine, thank you." He turns his attention to Mrs Levinson – it was always important to keep the receiving line moving. Mrs Levinson is far more distracted by the sudden disappearance of her daughter and before Robert knows quite how it happened Evelyn has her arm on his and he's signing his name next to three of her dances on her dance card.

Entering the ballroom, he scans the room but he cannot see her dark hair and is resigned instead to actually pay attention to what Evelyn is saying.

"So, as I was saying, this dress was a last-minute change and I am not sure it looks good."

"It's fine, very nice." She looks unconvinced. "You always look very lovely." She does look nice, but then green did suit her, it matches her eyes. She blushes in that way his mother always grins at him about when she spots it and Robert closes his eyes briefly, what is he doing?

 _Your duty._

The words pound in his head, the four-letter word echoing and echoing as it bounces off the insides of his skull. They are the words that seem to completely define him of late and he is becoming fed up with it. A week at home had only made it worse. His new life has to begin, there is no way around it, and from where he is standing he wants it to begin as soon as possible, if only to banish the word 'duty' forever.

Time passes as they stand secluded in the corner discussing Downton and the other guests at the ball. They each drown a glass of wine and Robert finds that the liquid at least helps him to ignore the looks of everyone around him which seem to be turned on he and Evelyn more often than any other spot in the room. He knew this was going to happen and yet he wished that tonight they would all keep their gazes averted, somehow, he felt bad being observed so closely when the young woman this was all for was still decidedly missing from the scene.

His mind drifts to Miss Levinson as Evelyn starts off on the same story he had already been subjected to three times in the last four days – it was about how her dress had arrived in the wrong shade of lilac. He wonders who Miss Levinson is going to open the ball with seeing as the Duke of Dascombe is predictably absent, perhaps her father? Robert frowns at that, it wouldn't be much of a start to her season.

Music suddenly snaps him from his thoughts and Evelyn takes his hand and leads them towards the front to the rows of people crowded around the outside of the room.

"The first dance Robert! I have you down for this one!" She laughs brightly but her eyes are fixed by the doorway where a gentleman has just appeared. He isn't particularly handsome (or so Evelyn exclaims when Robert points him out) but Robert recognises him, not because he knows him but because the upward tilt of his chin, and the way he stands looking at nothing, points to only one thing – royalty. A glance lower, registering the gentleman's attire, marks him out as Royal, nobody else would attend a ball looking as though they are about to order half the army to attention. Robert drops into a bow just as some others around them notice the Prince and do the same. The butler steps forward, looking rather ruffled at the Prince having stepped into the room prior to his arrival announcement, and makes the expected introduction 'His Royal Highness Prince Christian Victor', as the rest of the room cast their eyes to the ground in honour.

"A Prince at the first ball of the season Robert, how exciting!" But Robert isn't looking at her, his eyes are fixed on the small figure, just out of his vision, who steps into place beside Prince Christian. The next second, without a single word uttered by either of the people he is watching, they have stepped straight into a waltz. "He really is not very good looking is he Robert, that moustache and his nose is very long, do you not think?" Robert nods absentmindedly, his eyes are fixed on the Prince's partner.

Her hair is styled in a very fine hairdo that sits high on her head, leaving Miss Levinson's slim, slender neck to be viewed from where he stands. She is wearing dark green, the bodice (or the back of it anyway) is completely covered with beading, at the base of her back sits a large bow which drops down into the back of the skirt. The skirt is quite spectacular, the central back-panel is the same beading as the bodice while the side panels are a kind of green silk which is covered by black lace. It is Robert knows, and is sure he will hear, a very strange colour choice for a young woman. The dark, musty green and the black lace were more mature colours but Robert knows instinctively he is not the only person in the room who sees the beauty of Miss Levinson.

As more couples join the floor, Evelyn pushes her hand deliberately into his and he finds himself propelling them around the floor without having taken note of whether he is heading too close to any other couples or if they are in time to the music. His eyes seem to want to take every opportunity to find Miss Levinson.

"Do you not think we should do that, Robert? Now that it is all decided we might as well get on with it."

"Um, yes, you're probably right." He is looking over the top of her head as she speaks, the Prince having come into position in line with them.

"That way we can start making all the preparations, London is the best place to shop after all."

"Yes, indeed." He smiles down at her briefly, he really is quite sick of discussing the ball her parents were having in her honour, and the big announcement about their engagement that everyone wants him to make at it. He casts his eyes back to the wider room, he must see her eyes, he must capture her attention. Surely, in one look he will know if she has got his message. With the world closing in on him he really would like to know she had read those words he had wanted her to see, his apology for whatever he had said that had upset her so that last night he had dined with the Levinson's in Paris.

"I have been thinking maybe purple for the flowers? That way, they will match that dress of mine you like so much. I know they will not match the dress I wear that day but they will be a nice reminder. What do you think?"

"Yes, yes. Indeed." If he is honest though he had met a woman who looked far more stunning, far more alluring in lilac than Lady Evelyn. But, there is nothing he can do about it, his duty is his duty. If only he could catch a glimpse of Miss Levinson's face though, in the hope of knowing if she had forgiven his stupid mistake (not that he had worked out what it was, however many times he played the scene over and over in his head from that last dinner). Once he knows she has no hard feelings for him, and that they can visit some of the galleries in London as acquaintances he will be quite content, and able to forget those far too alluring images of her that sprung to mind at all the wrong moments.

"Perhaps you could come to tea tomorrow and we can finalise the date with all our parents present?" _Finalise? But…the date for the ball is already planned for the weekend after the palace presentation._ It is then that his mind catches up, Evelyn has not been talking about her ball, as he had assumed but something else.

"Wait, Evelyn, I don't understand."

It is then that she looks up, or rather the Prince turns them, and Miss Levinson is looking over his shoulder directly at him. Her eyes are the same bright blue he remembers from just over a week ago.

"I think we should settle on August, straight after the season. It will be better to be married as – "His eyes widen and his eyes snap their attention away from a pair of blue eyes to meet Evelyn's green ones.

"Married? Evelyn I…" He looks away.

Miss Levinson seems to smiles softly at him as their gazes meet. Her eyelashes dip up and down once in soft embarrassment at his notice.

Alarm rises in him as he turns back to Evelyn in complete bewilderment, his words failing him, what has he been agreeing to?

"Yes, Robert, that is the plan, we both know it is. And you just said, not five minutes ago, that I was right in thinking about making an announcement and setting the date." He shakes his head from side to side.

Miss Levinson tilts her head shyly in his direction, a small grin playing on her lips, can she see his distress? Is she laughing at him? Trying to say she forgives him? He does not know. All he does know is he wishes he is twirling her around the floor and not Evelyn, at least then he would not be getting sweaty under his collar as his partner discusses wedding plans before he has even proposed to her.

"Evelyn, I haven't even proposed to you yet. There is a ring and everything."

"You can give them to me when you come tomorrow. There is no point in dragging it out, we both know what we want."

 _What we want._

Is that true, does he really know what he wants? Evelyn seems sure, his whole family seem sure, but is he? Is a marriage of duty really what he has in mind? He knows the answer to that one – no. But where is the alternative? His father needs Evelyn's inheritance to save Downton and that was exactly how this whole case sat. 'We' is not a word used to describe himself and Evelyn, as it should be, but rather it encompasses his whole family, his home and the people who had laid their trust in his Papa. And for that group of people – the real 'we' – this is what they want. What they need.

He turns his attention back to Miss Levinson, watching her laugh as the Prince says something. A soft curl of her hair falls free from its styling and dancing on her cream shoulder. Her cheeks are becoming pinker by the second but he does not know if it is from exhaustion or blushing. He sighs inwardly, however much he might be attracted to her, it is no use, she is further from his reach now than she ever was in Paris. He has his life mapped out, and he should not waste hers by dragging her along.

"We will marry Evelyn, but can you at least promise to wait for me to propose properly before you rush into plans or set the date?" She looks taken aback, and slightly scared – it is not often that he tells her something so bluntly. "You deserve the proper proposal, that's all." She blushes at that, a soft smile gracing her lips.

"That's very sweet, Robert."

* * *

She glances down at her dance card, as if hoping by some kind of magic that the last remaining space will be filled with Mr Crawley's name despite him not having passed within six feet of her. The closest they had come all evening was during the first dance when he and his partner had circled near to herself and the Prince.

He watches her enough, or at least she is sure he is looking at her in the moments she is not looking at him. She cannot quite understand him. She cannot make out why a man who left her a note of apology in a blank notebook in a bookshop, for her to find (with a very, very subtle comment in a letter to her father) was not approaching her now, to at least check she had received the missive. But then she has overlooked the factor that governs him now, the factor that had not existed in Paris. Well, she had, but she hadn't been there. Stood to his side, as she had been all evening, is the lady Cora can only assume is Lady Evelyn Wheeler.

The very woman who had made Cora so distressed the last evening Mr Crawley had dined with them in Paris, when her name had been uttered so warmly by his lips. Distress, that she now knows had been noticed by the gentleman himself and caused him to write her a note of apology although he 'was not sure for what I am apologising,' that he had hidden in a notebook in the bookstore.

Lady Evelyn is pretty, very pretty in fact. Her bright green eyes shine, most noticeably when she looks at Mr Crawley, and she seems to chatter away to him in a way that Cora remembers had filled her own conversations with Mr Crawley in Paris. She is blonde, with soft tints of ginger highlighting the intricate curls of her hair. She has a shape that her mother has always complained Cora does not have. Where Cora is small, thin and rather straight with a tiny waist, Lady Evelyn is altogether larger, and curvier.

But it had not been any of those things that had caused her to rush away when Mr Crawley had first entered the house four hours ago. No, it had been her call of 'Robert' as she had raced across the hall to greet him, her arm slipping effortlessly into the crook of his elbow before he had so much as removed his hat. And then, well...then Mr Crawley had kept his head bowed as she told him something, his eyes never lifting to even survey the room or move towards the receiving line. Cora had fled then, turning on her heel and gently lifting her dress so she could climb the stairs to the sanctuary of her bedroom.

She is pulled out of her thoughts by someone calling her name. The Earl of Bedworth approaches for the dance she has him marked down for and sparing her from her thoughts for a good few minutes is his pleasant, but rather boastful conversation.

"You know my estate is one of the largest in the country."

"Indeed. How nice for you."

"Yes, there are lots of beautiful views. The present Queen was a regular visitor when…" Cora doesn't hear him because just to her right Mr Crawley has stepped onto the floor, for the third time this evening, with Lady Evelyn. Cora notes that she is not the only person that notices, a collection of people all begin whispering and nudging shoulders at the same time.

Cora gulps softly, that is that then.

Twice can be put down to a lack of partners (not that this is the case tonight) or a close association of two families. Three times was no longer coincidence. Three dances go beyond being mildly interested in a woman. Three dances mean that Mr Crawley is most obviously making his preference to Lady Evelyn plain – she is his.

She thought she had gotten over this. She had thought that she had managed to forget those foolish feelings of infatuation when he had left Paris. The truth is though (and it is becoming abundantly clear to her) she is quite unable to look at any other man without comparing them to Mr Crawley. Not just physically either, every word uttered from the lips of her various dance partners had churned up thoughts about whether Mr Crawley would agree; whether he would have laughed at the joke or found somebody's funny mannerism as amusing as she had. Maybe this is for the better, to have him firmly out of her reach. Maybe this is the only way she might be able to focus her attention on other possibilities.

She thanks the Earl of Bedworth for the dance as he returns her to the side of the room. Before he can so much as offer to fetch her some refreshment Prince Christian has returned to her side – a habit he seemed to have. She hadn't liked it at first, finding the attention rather stifling when he cannot possibly have any intention beyond being pleasant company – a prince cannot marry an American. As the evening has gone on though she had realised the advantages of the Prince, firstly he sends other men scuttling and actually, she felt relaxed with him, probably for the very reason she had first been wary. She finds it much easier to be herself when there is no pressure to say something witty, or flirt. Her mother's lessons don't echo in the back of her mind like they do the rest of the time.

"The Duchess said she thought you might have a spare dance, Miss Levinson."

"Yes, Your Royal Highness I do, this one in fact." She goes to place her hand in the one he holds out and then stops. "But we have already danced, I'm not sure – "

"I'm a Prince, Miss Levinson, and as much as that might grieve me, in this instance it's a good thing. Nobody would expect you to turn me down. In fact, you would probably be rubbed off the invitation lists for half the events of the season if you did. Now, let us dance." She fits into his arms as easily as she had before. She chances a glance around them and finds, as he had said, that nobody seems particularly bothered by her dancing with him a second time.

"Your Highness I – "

"Please call me Sir, the formality is really not necessary." Cora gulps softly as she looks back up at him. He isn't what she would call handsome, he doesn't really have enough hair for that, and his eyes sit too close together. But he is pleasant enough and far better than the stuck up fellow she had imagined when Isabella had first told her she was to open her ball with one of Queen Victoria's grandchildren.

"Very well, Sir, I have been wondering. That is, earlier you mentioned that you enjoyed playing sport, what sport is that?"

"Cricket, Miss Levinson. Have you ever observed a game of cricket?"

"No, I have not."

"Well, you shall have to come and see me play, there will be lots of games during the season. And the family have a kind of family game at Cumberland House in the summer. It is near Windsor castle and we usually dine in the castle afterwards. You shall have to come." Cora dips her head, has she just managed to invite herself to Windsor castle?

"Your High…Sir…I did not mean for you to – "

"It is quite alright Miss Levinson, I know you were not fishing for an invitation. Trust me, I would not have asked if I thought you were." She smiles a little awkwardly at his reassurance. "I am quite used to girls throwing themselves at my feet. I know when a woman is being herself and not assessing how much she can get from me." Cora is not sure what she can say to that, but she is desperate to find another topic of conversation – it will save her eyes drifting around the room and trying to find Mr Crawley.

"You said you have been put in the army?"

"Yes, I wear the colours of the sixtieth King's Royal Rifles. But I would say I have entered the army, not 'been put'. I chose to be in the army." Cora blushes and looks down a little, a flush of embarrassment overcoming her, has she just managed to insult a Prince?

"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, that was rude Sir, please – "

"Forgive you? I already have Miss Levinson. No man would not want to forgive such a pretty young lady." Before she can do any more than blush the music has ended and he is escorting her to the side of the room where Isabella waits (thankfully with a drink, dancing really is exhausting).

Two more boring partners later she is back beside Isabella as guests start to leave. She lets most of the guests walk by with just a nod or a pleasant reply to their questions about her enjoyment. The Prince is one of the first gone, much to Cora's relieve. His last flirtatious comment to her had left her rather uneasy – what if she had been wrong about his intentions? What if there is not some princess lined up to marry him?

Her thoughts about the Prince are distracted by the voice of Mr Crawley. There is no escaping it now, he is going to have to at least say goodbye to her. She has dreaded this moment all evening, ever since she had seen Lady Evelyn rush towards him when he had arrived and she had escaped upstairs. She knew there would become a point when they could no longer avoid the inevitable. She feels with great panic the moment get closer and closer as the footman helps him on with his coat and he takes his hat before turning slowly on the spot. Not that it is slowly, it just seems slow to Cora. Lady Evelyn is not with him, having arrived in separate parties, as he steps towards her.

"You must be Miss Levinson." Isabella turns in their direction.

"Oh, yes, I didn't introduce you to – "

"Miss Levinson and I have met before, Duchess, no introduction is necessary." Cora feels her friend's eyes on the side of her face. But Cora keeps hers fixed on Mr Crawley, she had assumed he did not want to acknowledge their acquaintance, hence his ignoring her all evening. She cannot think of anything to say but thankfully she doesn't have to because he keeps talking. "I am sorry I did not have the honour of a dance with you this evening, perhaps next time?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I would be honoured Lord Downton." He had stayed away and yet he had wanted to dance? That made no sense.

"Very well, Miss Levinson, until we meet again." His dips his head before moving towards Isabella and thanking her for organising such an event. Cora hardly notices the people that leave behind Mr Crawley. If she had been paying more attention she would have noted the wide look of curiousity on the face of Mr Crawley's sister whom had just overheard the whole exchange with much interest.

Twenty minutes later she is preparing to climb the stairs to her bedroom, leaving her parents chatter about the evening behind despite her mother calling for her to come and discuss her partners. She does not want to discuss her partners, the only man in her mind is the very one whom hadn't actually partnered her. The very man she desperately needs to remove from the pedestal she has sat him on. She feigns tiredness and races up the stairs. It is not until she reaches the top that she hears the footsteps that are following her.

"Cora? Might I have a word?"

"Of course, Isabella, what do you want to talk about?" They stand awkwardly at the top of the stairs until Isabella gently takes her hand and leads her in the direction of her bedroom.

"It's rather personal, we ought to be alone." Cora had never to her knowledge seen her friend looking so fragile. She sits down on the bed and then seems completely unsure about her decision and walks towards the door before changing her mind before pinching her lips between her teeth sits back down again. Cora lowers herself into the dressing table chair, waiting for her friend to impart whatever it is she wants to say. Cora thinks it might be that she is with child, which would be wonderful, she knows how much her friend has always wanted a baby. Finally, Isabella seems ready to begin, her eyes lifting from her lap to look at her. "I'm pregnant." Cora claps her hands and skips across the room.

"I knew it, you must be so pleased." Then something quite unexpected happens, Isabella bursts into tears. Cora isn't quite sure what to do. She climbs onto the bed beside her and puts an arm around her shoulders. Some sniffing and a handkerchief later Isabella looks up.

"I was, I am. I am very happy about the baby but…surely Cora you think it a little strange that Henry is not here with me?" Cora looks down into her lap, she thinks back over those letters Isabella had written, exclaiming about the joys of marriage and how much she liked her new home. Letters that had tailed off in the last few months. Cora had assumed it was because they were filling them with plans for her stay in London but maybe that hadn't been completely true.

"Well I – "

"I wasn't going to tell you, but after what I saw tonight I think I need to." Isabella turns to her, a fiery resolve in her eyes that has completely replaced the tears. "Henry doesn't love me Cora, he never did. He needed my money to save his neck and my body to give him a legitimate heir. He's currently entertaining his mistress in our country house while I'm here with you." Cora gasps, she has heard such stories of course but she had never thought that…well, Isabella had spoken so warmly of Lord Dascombe. "I know it's shocking but you need to hear it. I don't want you falling head over heels for the first man who pays you a compliment like I did. Study all these men, make friends with other women and find out what they know. Watch the mothers, if they avoid a man or are cautious when they approach their daughter, take heed. I might not have made the mistake I did if I had paid closer attention."

"Mistake? But you love Henry."

"That faded soon enough when he started bestowing his affections elsewhere without a backwards glance. Cora, just please, please don't rush into anything. Don't let your affections be stolen away by a man you hardly know." Cora purses her lips, her thoughts turning instantly to the place they are spending too much time – Mr Crawley. Isabella's advice is good advice, she should forget him, not only because he has clearly made his decision regarding his future, but because even if he hadn't it would be rash and naïve to favour him above everyone else simply because he was the first English gentleman she had met and he happened to be handsome.

"Thank you for being so honest with me Isabella, I understand that telling me all of that must have been difficult."

"Yes, well, I wouldn't have done, but I saw the way men were watching you tonight, Cora. And no doubt an association with me only reminds them that American's come here with money. I won't have you ending up in a marriage that is as dreadful as mine." Isabella pats her hand and heads to the door. Cora is about to ask her to stay so they can laugh and chatter like they did before she left for England last year, but then her friend turns and says something that completely knocks the air out her lungs and leaves her mouth hanging open.

"Oh, and Cora, be careful about Lady Evelyn Wheeler. If Lord Downton keeps staring at you across every ballroom like he did tonight you're going to have made an enemy by accident particularly when she learns he met you on his trip to Paris, something I note, you never mentioned to me."


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Thank you as ever for all the lovely reviews. As an Easter treat, as suggested by a couple of reviewers, here is another chapter. I hope you enjoy it. Another new character of my own (Mr Wakely) joins us here, I hope you like him. Evelyn and Cora come face to face in this one too! If you enjoy this on any level, please lease leave me a review (they inspire me to write and remind me to post the next chapter!) Much Cobert love and Easter blessings to you all.**

* * *

 **Chapter 8 – 12** **th** **-14** **th** **May 1888.**

Cora flicks the newspaper over on the table as her father gets up and leaves. She does not generally make a habit of reading the papers but when one is sat alone at the breakfast table there is little else to be done. She moves her father's dishes out of the way so she can open it out more fully on the table and nibble her breakfast at the same time.

The thin paper crinkles with her touch. She smooths down the seam in the centre of the page as she tries to catch a glimpse of a headline she might find interesting. She turns the pages slowly, the corners flapping as she does so, dropping like dog's ears, waiting for an article to capture her attention.

With her presentation in just over a week her mother is constantly fussing about gowns, feathers and shoes. With Isabella's condition, everything was a little more difficult to plan because the dress Isabella is presenting her in has to keep being altered as the swell of her stomach has changed from being completely flat to accommodating a five-month pregnancy. Cora liked to have a break from it all in the morning, talking with her father at breakfast and reading before her mother and Isabella come downstairs.

The next two main events, before her presentation, were the Derby races the following day, and Ascot began in a week's time. From everything Isabella had told her Ascot is a bigger fashion statement than the presentation balls, with everyone showing off their finest outfits and hats. Cora had little experience of horses, and she certainly wasn't bothered by them racing against each other, and neither did she find all that much joy in fashion so she was not particularly looking forward to any of it.

However, not all was bad, Prince Christian had promised to attend and explain it all to her, and if she is lucky she might be able to discuss more about his studies and some of the trips he has made abroad. Lord Bedworth had dropped many a hint about how spectacular the races were and how he would like to enjoy them with her but Cora had mainly ignored him, he was just so very boring. Her mind was also rather in high spirits after yesterday when she had met a gentleman called Mr Wakely at a music concert. They had fallen into easy conversation about the music, and he had asked after her attendance at the races and promised to find her.

Mr Wakely had reminded her a little of Mr Crawley – whom she was making a great success of forgetting since he had not approached her at a single event they had both attended in the six weeks since that first ball – and she hoped, perhaps naively, that he would turn out to be as amiable as she had found Mr Crawley those weeks in Paris. Maybe this time it might also last, if only to keep her mother off her back.

She turns another page in the newspaper and finds her eyes are skimming the society pages. A list of the main upcoming events is on the right-hand page, and on the left, is a discussion of the highlights from the night before and lists of people in attendance. Surrounding this are little pieces of gossip, Cora notes that Isabella is mentioned yet again with more speculation as to her husband's whereabouts. The whole of London now seemed privy to the fact that she is 'hosting her American friends the Levinson's' while her husband is 'in the country with his latest lady friend.' It was harsh gossip but it seemed Lord Dascombe, from what Cora had heard, was rather a rogue and that despite Isabella being American even the most noble families were happy to have her at their gatherings.

It's on the left-hand page, right in the middle of the last column that Cora reads a headline that makes her throat constrict tightly.

 _Lord Downton set to marry._

Cora gulps and the thin sheet of paper falls from between her fingers, fluttering into its place on top of the page below it. She had known that was coming for weeks, since before she had set foot in London she had known he was taken and yet it doesn't stop the nausea building in her stomach. The tea she had consumed mixes uncomfortably with the orange juice that Isabella had specially made for the breakfast table and she coughs harshly – a loud bark that seems more like a cry of pain. The butler looks her way and starts to move towards her back, but she prevents the second cough, tipping her head back and swallowing slowly. She lowers her head and shakes it slowly from side to side to try and dissipate the tears accumulating in the corners of her eyes – which are, of course, from the coughing episode and not emotion. To avoid the butler's eye, she turns her attention back to the paper. She takes the corner between her thumb and finger, desperate to turn the page and remove the article from her sight, but she can't. Her eyes dart straight towards it.

 _Despite the fact presentations have not even taken place yet, a close associate of the Wheeler household informs us that Lady Evelyn Wheeler, only child of Lord Mexborough, is set to marry Lord Downton. It has long been suspected that the two Yorkshire families would make an alliance, particularly as the lord and lady in question are known to be childhood friends and Lord Mexborough's estate, Canningford Grange, is just a few miles from Downton Abbey and will pass to his daughter upon his death._

Cora doesn't know what she was expecting it to say, but the tears prickle uncontrollably onto her lashes and she pushes her chair back and races from the room. She has known this for weeks, and he hadn't even approached her at any of the dozens of events they have both been in attendance for. Yet, something had kept him lodged in the back of her mind and however hard she tried she had been unable to completely dislodge it. In fact, if these tears are anything to go by, she has completely failed at even keeping him at the back of her mind.

She calms a little as she finds the comfort of the window seat in her bedroom. She steadies her breathing, letting her mind think over all the reasons why she knew this was going to happen. She thinks about the balls she had attended in the last six weeks, all events where Lady Evelyn and Mr Crawley had danced extensively, talked non-stop and laughed together. They had been inseparable and Cora had known that from the first dance of her first ball. Yet, her mind moved unhindered to those earlier meetings, to the way they had laughed in Paris, their discussions about Jane Austen and that meeting in the bookstore. The feel of his fingers clasping her own to halt her fall, and later the feel of her hand in his as he had assisted her over the piles of books. They are sensations that are still burnt onto her skin. Then there is the letter, would a man so clearly attached to one woman care about how he had left his acquaintance with another? The answer to that was certainly no, if his attachment to the first woman was as it ought to be. Yet, buried in Cora's top drawer is the letter he had left her, a letter he had gone to great lengths to get to her.

She crosses the room, opening the locked tin inside the drawer by the side of her bed she pulls out the black notebook from the Paris bookshop. Goodness knows why Mr Crawley had not written his message on paper and slipped it between the pages of the book, but he had not. Instead, he had taken his pen with him to the shop, and about a third of the way into the leather-bound book he had written his missive. Cora opens the book to the dog-eared page and as she did the first time she had seen his writing, she traces her fingers over the ink, feeling the smoothness of the patches where the ink has printed in comparison to the grainy texture of the paper. His handwriting is neat for a man, and she finds, as she always does when she gazes upon it, a love for the spiky tails to his larger letters. She lets her eyes absorb the words, words she was beginning to know off by heart.

 _Miss L,_

 _I hope you find this note, although I imagine the chance is small, there is no guarantee your father will show you the letter I sent him this morning and even that only, very lightly hints at its existence. Anyway, I best get to the point, if only before the shopkeeper comes to investigate what I am up to!_

 _Please accept my apologies for the distress I believe I caused last night when I dined with yourself and your parents. I do not know what I said that offended you so, but I know that there was something – your countenance became very pale and you did not look me in the eye for the rest of the evening._

 _I hope that whatever I said can be forgotten and you will still be pleased to share my company in London in a few weeks. I am sure you are going to enjoy yourself, I daresay the Royal Academy of Art's Exhibition a few days after your presentation will be one of your highlights, as it is always mine._

 _It only leaves me to add, god bless you._

 _Mr C_

It was blatantly clear though, that he had been more than willing to risk her reputation (even if he had not actually used either of their names) with no intention of furthering his acquaintance with her at all. She had been, as he had so eloquently put when they had been in Paris, his chance to embrace conversation he craved at home. Perhaps that was still true, Lady Evelyn might not have such a fondness for books, but she is the choice his family have made for him, and he seemed willing enough to embrace it if the last few weeks were anything to go by.

The letter meant nothing. Yes, he had gone to great (and silly) lengths to write it, and he had reiterated his hope of seeing her in London. But he had not talked of furthering their acquaintance, he had only said that he hoped she would not mind sharing his company and they had shared company around numerous dinner tables, and at many balls.

He has never promised her anything.

She had read far more into it than she ought to have. She'd had the thrill of the chase as she had escaped from her mother to find the notebook and then the exhilaration of reading it for the first time. She had felt the thrill of receiving a letter from a man, a situation that put her reputation in danger. She had felt altogether like Miss Bennet upon receiving her letter from Mr Darcy. It was that last link, added to the fact it really is a scandalous thing for a man to send a letter to an unmarried lady (let alone hide it in a book), that had fuelled her imagination, and added to those silly notions in her head that Mr Crawley was a little bit partial to her.

She lets the notebook fall shut in her hands. She needs to forget it all. The book falls to the floor as her mother enters the room in a flurry of fabric and excitement.

"Cora! There you are, Mr Wakely, the gentleman from the concert last night, has just called. You must come downstairs." Cora stands, this might be just the distraction she needs. She puts the book safely away, before following her mother downstairs.

He turns as she enters the room, before standing and walking instantly towards her. He is handsome, that much is for sure. He has golden hair, streaks of brown mixed in with the warm blonde. It is all curly onto the top, some loose curls falling onto his forehead, while the sides are short. His eyes are a pale blue, and his nose small. His chin is rather pronounced, in an angular and strong way. Despite being only nineteen he has broad shoulders and what Cora supposes are very strong arms.

"Miss Levinson, I do hope my call has not interfered with any plans you might have had for this morning?"

"Not at all, Mr Wakely. Besides, even if it had, I believe proper manners would to pretend it has not and meet the caller. Is that not so?" He appears instantly flustered and Cora can't help but let her lips twitch upwards as he hurries to apologise.

"I am sorry, please do tell me a time when I might call without interrupting you." He looks up from his embarrassment (which had made him look at the floor as his face flushed) to find her smirking.

"I am teasing Mr Wakely. How about we take a seat by the window?" She gestures towards the two chairs her mother seems to have expertly prepared near the large window. Her mother and Isabella seem to be completely engrossed in a book on the settee in the other corner, no doubt purposely.

"Right yes, of course." He seems a little flustered, his hands twitching awkwardly on his lap as he sits down opposite her.

"I think I have shocked you with my teasing Mr Wakely, do forgive me." She drops her gaze from his, fluttering her eyelashes the way her mother has told her to. It felt invigorating somehow, to know she is purposely flirting with a man, only if it is because she stupidly wants to annoy Mr Crawley. She knows this is a naïve reason to lead a man on, but she has an odd desire to see Mr Crawley's face when he sees her on the arm of Mr Wakely as often as Lady Evelyn dangles on his arm. Besides, she does like Mr Wakely, he has already showed himself to be both funny (he had made her laugh at the concert the night before) and intelligent, and in addition to that, there is the added bonus that he is also youthfully handsome.

"You're quite forgiven Miss Levinson. I am just not used to being teased. English girls…well – "

"Flirt with their fans and their eyes." He laughs softly.

"Yes, most of the time anyway."

"Well, I will try my best to improve my fan skills for you Mr Wakely." He leans forward a little, casting his eyes hesitantly back towards her mother and Isabella.

"I would rather you did not Miss Levinson, you are quite enchanting by just being yourself, besides, all those fan movements are simply irritating." Cora blushes genuinely, she had been told English men were not very forward, and yet Mr Wakely seemed very clear about where he wants this conversation to go. She pushes away the thought which try to draw similarities between this conversation and those she'd had with Mr Crawley. "You seemed to enjoy the music last night."

"It was a very good concert. I enjoy listening to music very much and I can play piano. I took lessons in that and singing until a few years ago."

"Why did you stop?"

"I didn't really choose to, my tutor retired and I never found another one I liked."

"Ah, aside from music what else do you enjoy?" She tells him about books, art, history (just as she had with Mr Crawley) for the next half an hour. it is just as he is leaving that he asks the question he admits he had come to ask, which is whether she will allow him to accompany her to the Derby the following day. Cora readily accepts the invitation, after all it will be nice to have a companion other than her mother and Isabella and it isn't as though any of the other women she had met had taken to her yet. Her being American seemed to be a major off put to most of them. Not that she minds, making female friends did not seem to be aim of the season and she has Isabella, which is enough.

After Mr Wakely has made his farewells she is unsurprisingly ushered into the drawing room to sit through a repeat of the conversation Isabella and her mother had been having while the gentleman had been present. Cora has his prospects and his title repeated back to her, but for the first time she has ever sat through one of these conversations she is pleased to be listening to her mother drone on. It keeps her mind from returning to that article she had seen in the paper, the article which had sent her into an emotional turmoil that had only been forgotten because of Mr Wakely. Yes, if she could hold onto thoughts of this morning's meeting with that gentleman as long as possible, the better the day will go. Tonight, and trying to sleep, would be a completely different matter, but for the moment she can safely keep him and Lady Evelyn from her mind by engaging in her mother's conversation about Mr Wakely.

* * *

Robert finds any horse racing event the highlight of the season. This is not because he particularly enjoyed watching the sport, or taking part in the endless amounts of gambling that his peers enjoyed so much. He liked it simply because it takes part outside and does not involve the tiring customs of making conversation and dancing in a dimly lit, far too hot, ballroom. Not that being outside means he can escape the general theme of the season, oh no, the Derby is just another excuse for women to dress up, this time in elegant day dress and oversized hats. Robert always preferred the Derby to the Ascot because of this matter of fashion. At Ascot, the ladies dressed to impress, it was nothing short of a catwalk and the size of most of the hats meant nobody standing near the back can ever see, and even if you somehow manage to find a position at the front, one has three different hats digging into one's head the entire time. Therefore, all in all, he slightly prefers the Derby because the ladies dressed just marginally less ridiculously.

Or at least, this was usually the case. Except today. Today Robert is thoroughly annoyed. Simply because today had come, as expected, after yesterday. The problem being that yesterday had been dreadful.

The gossip columns of the newspapers had been filled with mentions of his seemingly finalised marriage. He would have brushed it off as idle gossip but he had known better. Evelyn had been pushing and pestering the entire six weeks since that first ball. It was no accident that suddenly the papers had a source right from the Wheeler's household. Robert had known exactly who the source had been, Evelyn herself. He had confronted her and she had denied it, brushing the whole thing off as servants' hall gossip: 'Oh come on Robert, they all know I'm going to be Lady Downton'. He hadn't had much choice other than to believe her, he didn't have any evidence.

The whole situation had predictably brought about much speculation by both his parents and hers and somehow, before Robert had known what was happening his father was telling him about a dinner after the presentations at the palace next week. An intimate dinner with just the Wheelers. It seemed his father had even settled the night he was going to propose to Evelyn.

"Robert, are you listening? I was just saying that grey horse looks awfully dashing, don't you think?" He turns his gaze in the direction Evelyn points, and indeed the horse is a very pretty one. After offering Evelyn his agreement he can't think of anything else to say – which is strange, their conversation used to flow so easily – and they lapse into silence, the only sign they are together is the fact her tiny hand rests in the crook of his elbow.

He cannot quite work himself out, which he thinks is the problem. His grandmother has told him since he was a tiny boy she visited in the nursery, that her secret to a successful marriage was knowing oneself. She had repeated it at his last meeting with him before he had set off for London,

 _Remember Robert, when choosing a young lady make sure you know yourself, know what you want._

He had never really understood those words until now, but looking down at Evelyn (or rather the flowers on her oversized hat) he thinks he does. Evelyn had always been his friend, a treasure who visited from Canningford and preferred his company to Rosamund's. She is his childhood friend, and he is still very fond of her. But he isn't a child anymore, and the last few years had taught him more about the world and changed him. He doesn't want just a friend for a wife, he wants to have a _best_ friend, someone he feels comfortable talking about everything with – granny isn't going to around forever after all. He also wants his wife to challenge him, not to just agree because that is how it should be. Above that though, he wants a wife he can trust, and Evelyn isn't high on that score at the moment – he is still convinced she was behind the press article.

The problem is, that was all very well, throwing her over because he thinks he wants something more from marriage but this isn't just about him. Evelyn is the only heiress of the season within his radar, the only other he can think of is about to be married to her cousin, and he needs her money. His father, his whole family, are relying on her, on him.

"Oh, look Robert, the first race is about to start." She pulls him forwards towards the crowd of people gathering by the railing. His gaze gets left behind though, falling on the slim figure of Miss Levinson in lilac. She is paying no attention to the horses at all, her hand is resting on Mr Wakely's arm (a gentleman Robert knows very well) and her head is tilted back, her hand holding her hat in place against the breeze, as she laughs.

He bites his lip, Evelyn has not laughed at anything he has said for weeks. All she has done is fuss about an engagement announcement, a matter she has since taken into her own hands. Mr Wakely leans down and whispers something into Miss Levinson's ear, leaving her blushing. It leaves Robert blushing, to lean down like that, and so obviously leaning beneath her hat was very unseemly, even if everyone was distracted with the race.

He turns his attention to the race as the starting gates are opened and the horses race past the railing a few feet away from them. When he looks back around a minute or so later, the horses having raced out of view, Mr Wakely and Miss Levinson are still some distance from the crowd and still laughing about something.

"Evelyn, we ought to go and speak to Mr Wakely, it is his first season and his parents are frequent visitors to Downton."

"Of course, who are his parents again?"

"Lord and Lady Shackleton."

"Oh yes, of course. Lady Shackleton and your mama are very close, aren't they?"

"Yes." Philip sees them approaching and tips his hat, meeting them halfway.

"Robert, Lady Evelyn, are you both acquainted with Miss Levinson?" He feels Evelyn's grip tighten on his arm, when she had met Miss Levinson at a party two weeks ago she had not been pleased to learn of his earlier meeting with the young lady, which he had neglected to tell her about.

"Indeed, we are. How are you enjoying the races Miss Levinson?"

"Very well thank you Lord Downton. I wasn't looking forward to them, horses aren't a favourite thing of mine, but Mr Wakely is making it all quite pleasant." Robert doesn't miss the look they share, no doubt remembering whatever they had been laughing about earlier. Before he can think of anything to say, Evelyn speaks.

"I find it a little strange you should choose an English season, and potentially an English husband if you don't like horses Miss Levinson. Every well-breed Englishman rides, and takes part in the hunt, don't they, Robert?" Robert's mouth opens and closes, he has never heard Evelyn be so openly rude.

"Well, I – " Miss Levinson cuts him off, her face showing no signs of embarrassment.

"I am sure they do Lady Evelyn, but as I am neither English, nor a gentleman, I fail to see the problem." Robert keeps his smile to himself, not that it lasts long because Evelyn seems to have been prepared with a reply.

"Yes, but as the wife of one of these English gentlemen, you will be expected to ride out sometimes."

"Lady Evelyn, by the tone of your conversation I think you have probably heard some gossip about my ability to ride a horse and wish to point this out in front of Mr Wakely and Lord Downton. I will save you the trouble, I cannot ride, in fact, I have never sat on a horse before. I have no reason to hide it and whatever you might think, I am not ashamed of it either." Evelyn grips his arm tighter and she feels her neck turn, as if asking him to defend her against such comments. He is thankful for her large hat, for the first time ever, because at least he can pretend he has not seen her look at him. Instead, he ploughs on with what he thinks, fully realising that he is completely jeopardising his family's future. Not that he thinks Lady Evelyn is likely to relinquish her grasp of him that easily.

"Lady Evelyn did not wish to offend you Miss Levinson, and on my part I am sure you have many qualities that make your inability to ride unimportant."

"I do hope so Lord Downton." There is a short pause, before, showing herself to be genuinely good mannered, Miss Levinson changes the topic of conversation, not that Robert likes the new topic very much. "I believe congratulations are in order?" Robert can practically see Evelyn's beaming smile through her hat.

"You saw the announcement then, we – " Robert shakes his head, and interrupts Evelyn's runaway account.

"Actually, Miss Levinson, it's not all settled yet. The article in the papers was more gossip than anything else."

"Robert, don't be ridiculous. Don't listen to him Miss Levinson, it's basically settled." Robert is about to rebuke her once more but Miss Levinson decides once more to step in.

"Well, either way, I hope you shall both be very happy. All I would say Lady Evelyn, as a friend, is that I hope you have chosen wisely. Personally, I think it is far more important to have a partner in life who is honest and sticks to his promises; a man who makes an acquaintance and is happy to acknowledge that person wherever he might see them again regardless of the change in social setting, than it is to choose a man simply based on his estate or his title. A man should show true integrity, and rather than be wavered by the views of society he should stand up to what he thinks is right."

His face flares red as she continues talking. She might be addressing Evelyn but this little speech is most definitely aimed at him.

Breaking promises and ignoring acquaintances. It was all quite plain to him, even if Evelyn had not yet caught up, that Miss Levinson is referring to the promises he had made about showing her London and guiding her through the season. He had failed miserably at both, this is only the third conversation he has had with her since it started and he has not shown her anything or introduced her to anyone. Added to that there was the matter of treating her differently here from how he had treated her in Paris, that much was definitely true.

He felt ashamed to realise he had behaved in a way that can only be described as unkind, ungentlemanly even. He had, as she had noted, put principles of upper-class English society above his own. He had ignored her simply because he did not want to either ruin his chances with Evelyn, or show himself to be too well acquainted with an American – who are by definition 'outsiders'.

He would feel angry about being spoken about in such a way, and maybe that had been his immediate reaction, surprise at her being so obvious, so blatant in her opinions. Angry at her for highlighting his flaws so easily. But the problem is, where truth is not on his side, he ends up feeling responsible, caving into those feelings his father always told him are soft and to be kept hidden from view – this is one of those occasions.

"I have to agree with you Miss Levinson, and as Mr Wakely will tell you Robert is a very gentlemanly, moral man." Robert looks at his feet, not daring to look up and see the smart look that is no doubt plastered on Miss Levinson's face. No doubt the corners of her mouth are twitching in amusement at Evelyn.

"Indeed. I am sure he is. Now, Mr Wakely I believed you mentioned something about a drink." Robert lifts his head as Miss Levinson and Philip make their way back towards the pavilion.

"Isn't she dreadful Robert? So above herself, she seems to think she knows best about everything." Robert declines to answer Evelyn, because in this case Miss Levinson did know best – he was most certainly in the wrong. She might have just behaved in a way that was not one which was going to gain her many friends here in London, it might have been unladylike to voice her thoughts so freely but Robert could not judge her for that, not when he had been refusing to stand up and admit to his acquaintance with her. "What do you think Robert, do you think Mr Wakely will make her an offer? I do hope not, otherwise we will have to entertain her at Downton for the rest of our lives." Robert is forced to answer Evelyn on this one, if only to keep the images of Miss Levinson sat around the dining room table at Downton as far from his thoughts as possible.

"I doubt it, it is his first season and he's still young. He is entitled to some fun."

"I wouldn't call dancing with an American fun." She laughs, but Robert doesn't laugh with her, he feels himself tense. When head Evelyn become so spiteful?

"Evelyn, you don't mean that. Yes, she has different opinions than you are used to, but that is not a reason to dislike her." She huffs but drops her gaze from his, knowing he is annoyed with her. Usually he would rush to tell her he is not angry, but he cannot think of the right words, not when she had said something so unjust.

He walks them away from the crowds of people, towards a small, and currently abandoned marquee. After his doubts about her honesty regarding the article about them in the paper, he had held off proposing (something he still wanted to be a personal moment and not come about because of his parents' schemes), and instead wanted to ask Evelyn some questions, to be sure he is definitely making the right choice. It was stupid he knows, to ask her question he has particular answers in mind for, he is only going to be disappointed and none of it will make any difference because he has to marry her.

"Evelyn, what is it you're most excited about regarding us being married?" She smiles broadly and Robert cannot help but tense, he has avoided this topic so often that she was bound to get excited. Her green eyes twinkle in the way they always had as a child and her head tilts to one side as she chews her lip, thinking about what to say first.

"Well, I am very excited about making Downton my home and to discover all the walks all over again." Robert doesn't break his gaze from her, not even when his mind is silently whimpering about how that is entirely the wrong answer. She is most excited about the estate, not him.

"And, what about the thought of being with me? Does that please you?" She looks down a little, her eyelids fluttering shut and Robert frowns, what had he said wrong?

"Well, I mean, I don't really know about any of that. But I am sure you'll be very gentle and – " Robert feels his own cheeks turns crimson and he shakes his head.

"Evelyn, that's not what I meant, sorry. I phrased that badly. What I meant was how do you feel about spending every day with me?" Her cheeks are still stained pink when she levels her eyes with his, and he cannot help but find that image of her – wide eyes, flushed cheeks – remind him how much he did truly like Evelyn. For all her flaws, she is attractive and they had known each other so long.

"Well, of course that will be nice too. But we will have our own separate things to do too at Downton. We won't be together all the time." And just like that, the pretty image he would have been happy to daydream about falls away. They were very close friends, always had been, but it is becoming clear to Robert that their plans for marriage are very different.

He thinks back to what his grandmother had said, about knowing himself before he decides. He does know himself, maybe it had taken too long to get to this point, but he does know himself. He knows what kind of marriage he wants and Evelyn does not seem to have the same plans. Can a marriage possibly work if the two people in it don't even agree on how it should be carried out?

He moves towards the chairs that are lined around the edge of marquee, and takes a seat, Evelyn follows and sits down on the chair beside him, although he hardly notices. He is turning over a final resolve in his head, should he look further than Evelyn? Should he see if he can find a young lady at this season who might actually hold a hope of him being happy in marriage? The obvious answer, and the one his grandmother would favour, is yes. But the realist answer, the one that he knows will win, is that he cannot throw her over (not that there is anything to throw over yet), his whole future, the future that burns in his bones, is reliant on Evelyn's money.

"Have you got the sheet with the order of the races, Robert? I seem to have lost mine." He nods, reaching into his inside breast pocket. He rummages around, absentmindedly emptying some of the other contents onto his lap while his head still spins with questions. In his haste, he forgets the small box he had been in the habit of carrying around the last few weeks, waiting for the right moment to present it to Evelyn. He tosses it into his lap with his cigars and some money. It is only when he finds the crumples piece of paper and looks up to give it to Evelyn that he realises. His face freezes in shock as hers widens in happiness, her hands turning the velvet box around in her grasp. "Oh, Robert! I thought, Ma and Pa said you were waiting until after the presentations next week." He gulps, and gently pries the box from her hands before she opens it, somehow, he felt very apprehensive about her seeing the ring. He and his grandmother had selected it from the Downton collection. It wasn't what his parents would have wanted him to choose, the circular cluster of pearls interspaced with larger facets of lots of diamonds was hardly a traditional ring, but it had been the one he had liked.

"Evelyn, I…that is – "

"Oh Robert, you're tongue tied! You know I'm going to say yes, so I don't know what you're worried about." She reaches forward and takes his hand, but Robert slips his out of her clasp.

"Evelyn, no…I mean, this isn't me proposing. I've been carrying the box around waiting for the right moment. You weren't meant to see it today. Not yet anyway." Her face falls, but she plasters a weak smile on her face nonetheless.

"Right, of course, I forgot that you want to get it just right. But Robert, I don't think we should wait much longer, I would like the wedding to be in August, just before everyone returns to the country after the season, and if you wait much longer we won't have time to plan it properly."

"Of course." She gets up, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek, before saying she will see him outside in a minute or two. He watches her walk back outside, pleased that where they had sat in the marquee had meant they were out of view from anyone outside – nobody had seen his bumbling mistake. He stares at the box in his hand as he twists it around and around, time is closing in around him, and he feels less prepared for the future than ever before.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews. I am so sorry, this update has taken so long, exams rather got in the way!**

 **Before it starts I would like to note a couple of points about this chapter. The first is that the club Robert visits was an actual gentleman's club at the time. The second is that Robert's two friends in this chapter are both characters you know. The first Dickie, will be familiar to you all and the second John 9for those of you that haven't watched Downton in a while - like me) is the same John that has to sell off his possessions in the nearby Mallerton Hall in series 6. I rather look to him in the series and thought he deserved a place here. Oh, and Lady Shackleton even appears here - she made an off-hand comment about hating her daughter-in-law in series 6 so I thought I'd play around with her a little in this story...**

 **Finally, as ever, the reviews are the best thing in the world and keep me writing. However long after the last posting date they really keep me going and remind me to update!**

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

Altercation was something Robert tried to avoid, like his mother avoided socialism. It was, to Robert, the very thing that turned man into beast and something that often made gossip out of peers.

This being so, it was with much trepidation that he knocks on the door to the Wheeler's London home at eight fifteen the morning after the Derby; The Times, creased firmly, in his grasp. The butler opens the door announcing his regrets that the family are not yet downstairs. Robert doesn't take the hint, he does not leave his name and turn tail. His anger must show, the fire burning in his stomach must burn clearly in his eyes because the butler simply obliges his request for a cup of tea and that Lady Evelyn (and only Lady Evelyn) be informed of his presence the moment she wakes.

His tea arrives almost immediately and he takes a long reassuring sip. After having left the house in such a fury he had left his own cup of tea and almost all of his breakfast unfinished, something his stomach is definitely not happy about. But it was no matter, and easily forgotten, when the far more volatile feelings of anger churn his head and his stomach in a way that even a lack of food cannot replicate.

He is halfway down his first cup when he hears the heeled footsteps in the hall. His turns his eyes away from the bookshelf he had been admiring in the corner of the room and turns to face a beaming Evelyn. In fact, beaming is an underestimation, her face is lit up like fireworks, her green eyes perfectly offset by an emerald day dress. Robert would have said it flattered her if it had been yesterday, indeed, if she had worn it a month ago he might have complimented how pretty she looked, but not this morning. No, this morning, all he sees is an emerald green dress worn by a woman he no longer recognises. The gown is worn by a lady he had once understood, and in his way, loved, now it is worn by a woman who was quite willing to lie to get her own way. She is the woman, according to The Times, he proposed to yesterday.

He snatches the newspaper from where he had left it on the settee. Her exclamations about how happy she is to see him here, and how proud her parents fall short when he at last lets his eyes meet her gaze. He points to the article filling half a page of the society pages. She looks shocked, her eyes widen, her delicate hand reaches up to cover her mouth and she lowers herself slowly onto the edge of the settee as her eyes dart across the words.

"I can't believe it Robert, someone must have seen us yesterday and yet – " He shakes his head from side to side, he might have, maybe, forgiven her if she had outright admitted her guilt in the matter, but the whole tirade is the last match needed to set his anger alight.

"Do you really think I believe that? Evelyn, I am not an idiot! Nobody could have seen us. THIS WAS YOU!" Her eyes drift up from the page, wide in complete astonishment – he has never shouted at her before. He watches her try to form a reasonable excuse and he knows the moment she has given up such a design because her wrist falls slack and the paper falls into her lap.

"What does it matter Robert? You _are_ going to propose and we _are_ going to be married."

"It's the principal of it that matters Evelyn. I cannot…I will not marry a woman who is so ready to go behind my back and deceive me. You gave me your word at the beginning of the season that you would wait for me to propose, you have not."

"Robert, it is just gossip."

"Gossip! Evelyn, you gave some horrid reporter a minute by minute account of what transpired between us yesterday, even going so far as to stretch the truth and say that I _had_ proposed when I _had not_. I don't know what you are playing at, trying to trick me into marrying you maybe? Trying to make me look so thoroughly attached to you through the medium of the press that I will be too scared to so much as look at another woman for fear of scandal. I don't understand your game Evelyn, but I know one thing, I WILL NOT BE A PAWN IN IT!" He snatches the paper from her hand and marches to the door. He turns around once last time just before he exits. "THERE WILL BE NO PROPOSAL EVELYN! THIS IS AT AN END!" he does not turn back as he strides out into the main hall, his shoes clipping on the polished floor.

He registers her more hurried footsteps behind him as the footman takes his coat from the closet and helps him into it but he doesn't look up.

"Robert, wait, please!" Her hand grabs his as it appears from the end of his sleeve. The footman holds out his hat which Robert takes.

"Lady Evelyn, I think it best that the footman helps you to your room, you're not feeling well." He doesn't miss the look of horror that crosses her face as he addresses her with her title – something he has not done for months. Her hand drops from his and he moves towards the open door.

"Robert please, everyone makes mistakes. Can you not forgive me?" He keeps walking, now he has made the choice he has to stick to it, he has to be resolute. Goodness knows what he does now? Whatever is he going to explain to his father? But the decision is made, and on his head be it. "Robert? Please? I love you, that's why I…" She breaks down into sobs somewhere behind him, at the same moment as his eyes widen and he very almost loses his resolve.

A million memories of he and Evelyn flash across his mind. Running in the gardens as children; racing alongside each other; teasing Rosamund; playing with the dogs; all the dances he has shared with her. He doesn't just see that though, he sees the way she had always gazed up at him, how eager she always was to do whatever he wanted to do. It had once been a young girl wanting to be liked by the boy she looked up to as a brother but that had changed at some point and Robert had failed to notice. At some point in the middle there she had fallen for him. Maybe he had noticed, subconsciously, but consciously he had always thought it was because that was the plan – for them to marry.

He doesn't turn back though, despite desperately wanting to take her in his arms, as a friend, and comfort her; tell her everything is going to be alright, he knows he cannot. Not only because he has made this decision (however stupid) and he wants to stick to it, but because turning back to her now will hurt her far more than if he leaves this as a clean break and walks away.

Outside he pauses for half a second, a long, hurried breath escaping into the air. He doesn't even notice it is raining as his thoughts tumble about, flicking through memories and spotting all the signs he had missed about Evelyn. He stares only at the pavement as he walks in no particular direction (although one that is definitely in the opposite direction to Grantham House), his thoughts churning uncontrollably.

 _If I had noticed her feelings would I have tried harder with Evelyn? Been more reasonable today? Should I go back now and apologise? Propose? When had her feelings changed? Had other people known she loved him? Was it just me that had missed the signs?_

He doesn't know the answers to any of the questions. On two occasions he stops, turns around, walks back five paces before changing his mind and continuing to walk away. If she loves him, when he cannot return the favour she deserves the chance at some kind of happiness. It might not be the same love she has for him, but she deserves a man who at least falls asleep at night thinking about her, rather than the startling eyes of Miss Levinson (he had still not managed to shift her from his thoughts).

That was something that was angering him more and more, she had been blatantly rude to him only yesterday and was clearly getting on very well with Philip, and by all accounts the Prince from that first ball was smitten with her as well, and yet whatever he tries he cannot shift her from his thoughts. If it isn't her eyes he is thinking about, it is her laugh, her love of books or whether she had received that letter he had stupidly written. But none of it is any good, he needs to marry an heiress, and Miss Levinson had willingly told him back in Paris that she has a brother so that was the end of that. In fact, if he was honest, he is now looking at the end of it all. The only other heiress of the season was already spoken for so the best he can do now is hunt out the lady with the next largest dowry – the details of which would be listed in the society pages after the presentations next week.

He jumps at the sound of a horse and carriage so close to him, when had he crossed onto such a busy street? Looking about him, it doesn't take him long to recognise his location – St James's Street. It was true that Grantham house was just around the corner, but Robert puts that thought to one side, up ahead is Boodle's, his club. He needs to think through the decision he has made without his father watching over him, or rather, he needs to work out how he is going to tell him what he has done without sounding as though he has just thrown his duty to the wind. Robert frowns once more at that, maybe he should have a drink first?

He had always liked the façade of Boodle's, the marble columns forming the porticos of the two entrances and that white marble look covering the length of the building for the first floor. Above that the brown brickwork really is perfectly toned down by yet more white on the frames of the windows. The central window, with its arch shape has a wider white section which the width of the balcony that sits before it. The window sits exactly between the two entrances below and altogether produces a very refined look.

Inside he walks straight into the back room where he knows the bar is, to secure himself a drink, it might be just after nine in the morning but he really does need a drink, just one, to clear his head. He should not be surprised by the sight that greets him at the bar, but he is. The room is deserted, aside from one barman and his cousin James. James is hunched over the bar, drink in hand.

"Robert, cousin, how are you? Not as good as me I would wager. Nothing like London is there, hey. Look sort of unhappy Rob, what happened? Missing that French actress, you crowed so much about? Well, I can tell you, if you let me, I can show you this great place I found last night, lots of beautiful girls and they don't even mind how many you – " He hardly lifts his head from where it rests on his arms. He reaches out and pokes Robert on the chest a couple of times.

"James, I think you should go and lie down, you're drunk."

"Drunk on those girls from last night Robert. I tell you, now you've found your appetite with that actress you should really try this place I found, it – "

"James, I don't care about whatever place it is you've found. I am not like you, now, I presume you are staying here?" He nods, the action of sitting up straighter almost making him fall off his seat. Robert turns to the barman. "Can you have two footmen sent this way, my cousin needs to be helped to his room." The man scuttles off and a second later two large men appear and half wrench James out of his seat. Robert breaths his, what must be one thousandth, heavy sign of the morning, and asks for a straight whiskey. The barman hands it over and Robert gulps it down in one. He declines the offer of a second and instead asks is he can have a plate of breakfast sent up, with a pot of fresh tea.

Finishing his breakfast in less than half an hour, all this emotional turmoil really is hungry work, he wonders at what exactly he is going to do for the rest of the day. After all, if he can avoid returning home until the dinner his mother has planned for the evening – she is desperate to marry Rosamund off this season – he can escape any kind of private discussion with his father until tomorrow.

He leaves the quiet bar area intending to head to the club library. Well, he calls it the library, but it is really the billiards room and is mainly filled with billiards and cards tables but it does have a few bookshelves along one of the walls. It is the only part of the room Robert used with any regularity, he had never taken to billiards and cards was fine when he was drinking with his friends but as he usually stayed at the club when he came to London for very short trips it isn't often that his trip coincides with one of theirs.

It is with some surprise, and a slight hint of annoyance therefore that when he steps out into the foyer he is met by two of his closest associates – Dickie Grey and John Darnley. Dickie had always been a dear friend of his, residing at Cavenham Park, and was imminently to become Lord Merton if what Robert had heard about his father's health was true. John Darnley was another of his neighbours, at Mallerton Hall, and the son of his own father's closest friend. They are both men Robert trusts absolutely. Therefore, he ends up in the billiards room not searching for a book, but lighting a cigar and settling down to a friendly game of cards.

The talk soon turns to the season, and to Robert's relief, John Darnley's romance. He has been, for almost as long as Robert can remember completely smitten with Lady Marion Hardcastle, and now that she has finally reached her eighteenth birthday and is to be presented, he can formally court her. It was all rather a love affair, she has been smitten with him just as long. Dickie turns in his direction.

"How are things with you Robert? Proposed to Evelyn yet?" Robert gulps, he should have known talk of John's sweetheart would lead to talking about Evelyn, after all he and John had always boasted about how lucky they were, to have met the girls they wanted to marry so young in life. Except that isn't true anymore.

"No, I haven't." He concedes his hand of cards as the other two continue. John lifts his eyes from his cards slowly, his lips pursed, eyebrows raised in question. Robert sighs, it was no use putting it off. Besides it might be worth asking them for some advice about how to tell his father. "Nor am I likely to. We fell out this morning, properly. It's all over."

"Oh Robert, I am sorry." Dickie puts his cards down, an unofficial end to the game as he leans across the table. "But surely you might be able to patch – "

"No, we can't Dickie. Besides, I cannot offer her what she wants." John sighs this time, falling back in his chair.

"She finally told you she loves you then."

"Did everyone know except me?" He turns to Dickie, who simply shrugs his shoulders and drops his gaze. So, everyone had known. "That's not the point anymore though. I have a serious issue brewing with Pa. As you know Downton needs major money and Evelyn was going to provide it. Now, well, Downton is going to have to go, there isn't a single other heiress unattached and I can only think of a couple of women who might have dowries Pa would find acceptable." John shakes his head and laughs.

"The answer has been staring at you across ballrooms since the beginning of the season, Robert." Dickie's face spreads into a wide grin as John and he share a look. Both of them leaning back to watch his reaction. John laughs, as Robert feels his brow furrow, the only woman he had noticed looking at him was Evelyn. "Oh, and you haven't even noticed her. Lovely. Classic Robert." The two of them sit there staring at him with massive smirks on their faces.

"It's ironic that you haven't noticed her looking, Robert, everyone else has. She's being called the exotic princess, but then that might be because Prince Christian seems to have taken a fancy to her but – "

"You cannot mean Miss Levinson?" Dickie and John nod slowly before reaching to shuffle the cards. "She can't save me, she told me herself that she has a brother."

"When did she tell you that? From my knowledge, you and her haven't actually spoken, she's just been staring at you a lot." John tilts his head at him quizzically, Robert drops his gaze, he had forgotten he hadn't told them about Miss Levinson and Paris.

"That is not important. The point is she has a brother and therefore just has some small dowry which is not enough to save Downton." Dickie says nothing but laughter races in his eyes, John deals the cards but Robert can see words forming on his lips, behind his smirk.

"Robert, Miss Levinson has more money than the rest of the women at the season put together. America isn't like England, she will have an equal share of any inheritance as her brother does, and hers will be forming her dowry. Why do you think she is here? And claiming so much attention? There are only three things that aristocracy cares about when it comes to marriage – "

"Title, connections and money." Robert whispers the words, his head churning faster than it ever has before. Blue eyes flash before his eyes, followed by lilac dresses and morning walks.

"Yes, and as she has neither of the first two but her dance card is always full, she must have so much of the latter that it more than makes up for it."

 _Maybe there is a way out of this_.

Robert feels a smile gracing his face for the first time all day but then he remembers the words she had spoken at the Derby two days ago, the fierce look in her eyes as she had made it clear she thought him excessively rude.

 _Or maybe not._

In the back of his mind he hears the ringing of her laugh as she had spoken to Mr Wakely; the feel of her hand pressed into his in that bookshop in Paris; he can smell the fragrant scent that emanates from her. Then there are the memories of the glint in her eyes as she had teased him and the chocolate curl that her bounced at the back of her neck.

 _But I will try._

* * *

Cora pulls her gloves up a little higher as the carriage pulls to a stop. At least she is warm though, which is a lot more than she had been this morning as she had travelled to the palace for her presentation. It was beyond her why it was compulsory for those gowns to have such short sleeves and such low necklines when England is always so cold. But that was the rules as Isabella had explained to her hundreds of time in the weeks of fittings that had led up to the creation of the final dress. Above and beyond all of that though the single worse part of the day had been the curtseying, lowering oneself very almost so your knee touches the ground but not quite, and then rising back up slowly without tripping over. It was all made trickier by the ostrich feather on her headdress that flopped forward at as she knelt and generally made her more off balance. As if all this ridiculousness was not enough she had then had to accomplish the far trickier task of retreating backwards, making sure she kicked the train of her dress back as she stepped so that she did not fall over.

Therefore, although she is exiting the carriage and giving up her coat with much trepidation, she knows the ball at least is going to be an easier task than her day has been. Not only will there be lovely music for her to listen to, and drinks to slowly sip her way through and calm her nerves, but there will also be a decent bathroom, something that had been lacking at the presentation. It is odd then that the main feeling hanging over her was one of trepidation, as if she felt that something is going to happen tonight that is going to be more in line with the rest of her day, and completely ruin what could be a lovely evening.

Her worries vanish at the appearance of Mr Wakely, who leads her into the ballroom with some lively chatter about the latest book he is reading, something she had recommended to him. They are dissecting the plot when they are interrupted by Prince Christian, who however hard Cora tries to put him off is desperate to persuade her to travel with him to Cumberland House to watch him and his friends play cricket. She had put him off so far, although it had unfortunately reached a level of little success since her mother had since got wind of the plan and was encouraging the Prince on her behalf.

"Miss Levinson, might I take a look at your dance card?" He leans over her wrist and extracting the pencil from its little holder inserts his name into two of the dances, although she is pleased that he does not choose the first or the last. She wonders at him offering two dances but she doesn't worry – the words he had spoken that first night still ring true, he is a Prince and therefore nobody can fuss about what he chooses to do.

Mr Wakely tentatively leans over and asks if he might do the same, before pencilling himself in for the first dance. They are deeply engrossed discussing the particulars of the ballroom and some of the interesting dresses that are making their appearance when a lady and gentleman Cora doesn't recognise approach. Mr Wakely tenses up beside her.

"There you are Philip. You must be Miss Levinson." The lady's eyes turn on her and Cora notes not only that they are the exact shade of Mr Wakely's, and that this must be his mother, but that the smile is not unfriendly, which is a good start, there had been way too many parents of her partners that had turned their noses up at her.

"Yes, Mama, Papa, let me introduce you, this is Miss Cora Levinson. Miss Levinson, my parents, Lord and Lady Shackleton." He gestures between them and lady Shackleton immediately embarrasses them both my saying how much 'Philip has been discussing you at home Miss Levinson.' Cora knows her face flushes as Mr Wakely tries to divert the conversation in another direction. She purses her lips as Lord Shackleton takes his turn at being equally interested in everything about her upbringing and America, her love of books and her father being Jewish – why had Mr Wakely told them so much about her? And how on earth has she made Mr Wakely become so attached to her? That had not been the intention.

She answers their enquiries as best she can and is just beginning to feel as though she might be calming her nerves over Mr Wakely's partiality when the very man that she has been thinking about as much as Mr Wakely seems to have been thinking about her, comes to stand beside Lord Shackleton and greet him warmly.

"Ah Robert, how are you?" Mr Wakely turns to his friend with much too much enthusiasm, only proving his embarrassment over his parents unending stream of questions towards her.

Cora doesn't miss how Mr Crawley's eyes hardly meet Mr Wakely's, they stay fixed on her. She drops her gaze immediately. She is not going to be drawn in, not by a man like Mr Crawley. She had said what she thought about him a week ago at the races, she will not become attached to such a hypocritical man.

"And how are you enjoying the season Miss Levinson? Is London proving to be to your liking?" She lifts her gaze. So, he has the nerve to try and come over and patch up their differences despite the fact that by all accounts he is engaged to be married. Well, clearly, she had not made her point clear enough last week.

"It is, thank you, Mr Wakely here is proving to be an excellent companion, making sure I don't miss any of the highlights." His eyes don't waver, if anything she thinks she sees a hint of a smile on his face, as if he is trying to suppress laughter. She frowns, why on earth is he so infuriating?

"I am glad. I wonder, Miss Levinson, do you have any spaces left on your dance card? Or perhaps your string of Princes and Mr Wakely's have filled them all?" Cora is pleased that the other three people seem to be deeply engrossed in a conversation facing the other way.

"I do have some spaces left, although I fail to understand why an engaged man would want to make a spectacle of himself by dancing with another girl. Surely Lady Evelyn will be most displeased?" He takes her proffered wrist and pencils his name onto the card, obscuring his writing enough that she cannot see where he signs – she will have to look when he is gone. As he writes, he speaks.

"Lady Evelyn will most certainly be displeased, but no more so than she is already." His eyes lift from the card as he lets it go and it swings on her wrist, his fingers instead taking her gloved hand within his own. She has a flashback to that morning in the bookstore in Paris, his touch sending a shiver of an unknown sensation through her fingertips and up her arms. "And you're not a girl Miss Levinson, you are a young lady." Before she can think of anything to say in response he is gone and another man she doesn't know is being introduced to her by Mr Wakely and scrawling his name on her card – she hardly notices his face.

That pattern continues for the next ten minutes as gentlemen from the last six weeks' flock up to her and add their name to her card. This being so, it is only when the card is full some ten minutes before the first dance that she is able to open it and find out which dance Mr Crawley had chosen. Her eyes widen in horror as she finds his familiar (she had read that letter an awful lot of times) hand; he has chosen the last _two_ dances of the evening. She drops her card, it swings frantically on her wrist. Him choosing any dance when he is engaged to another woman is completely beyond her, but to choose _two,_ and them being the _last two_ meaning everyone will notice that they dance two together _in a row._ My goodness he has a nerve.

She looks up, desperately searching the room so she can glare at him. She spots him straight away, after all, she has gotten rather good at finding him in a crowded ballroom (even if she doesn't like to admit that to herself), and he is staring right at her, a wide grin on his face and his eyes sparkling like they had in Paris.

In the not too distant future she would say that was the moment she had fallen in love with him, that look, those eyes. But in the moment her feelings are far from wafting about warm, sentimental emotions and are instead boiling over with anger.

The evening passes dreadfully slowly for her, the smiling face of Mr Crawley never seeming to leave her as she dances with various viscounts and earls. He doesn't dance one dance, but every time she looks up he is watching her and all it does is anger her more. What is he thinking? Singling her out and subjecting her to gossip when he is engaged to another woman? She tries to ignore him but it becomes increasingly more difficult as the end of the evening approaches and Mr Crawley's smile across the ballroom only seems to become wider. When the time does come for the first of their two dances he comes towards her completely unfazed, and looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

"I can tell from your face Miss Levinson that this dance could go rather like Miss Elizabeth's and Mr Darcy's first dance." She doesn't take his bait – the temptation to slip back into those conversations they'd had in Paris. She is not going to let such a hypocritical man who is just about to expose them both to the society pages of the newspaper in a way that she could really do without – half of the people at every occasion already turn their noses up at her.

"I think you have underestimated my anger, Lord Downton. Miss Bennet wasn't angry with Darcy, so much as confused by him. _I_ _am simply angry_." He adjusts his hold on her and they begin to dance to the waltz that fills the room. She tries to ignore that sensation of his hand on her back, but she can't, those distinct tingling feelings she had felt when he had touched her hands now flows from the centre of her back up her spine, leaving her quite paralysed to think straight.

"Perhaps you will allow me to apologise Miss Levinson? I asked you to dance tonight because I wish to apologise for ignoring you since we have been in England. You were right last week at the Derby, it shows very poor moral standards."

"I hope you're good at this apologising business Sir, because tomorrow we are going to be sprawled across the society pages, and you won't just have me to apologise to, but your fiancée, who no doubt will be questioning why you danced twice, _in a row_ , with another woman."

"Lady Evelyn won't be any less pleased with me than she is currently. You didn't say if you accept my apologies." She purses her lips, he only wishes to apologise to her and yet she cannot quite get over the fact he is going to subject her to a society scandal the day after her presentation – oh how she had known tonight was going to be a disaster.

"I would have done, Lord Downton, but there is the issue of the gossip we're going to create. I don't think you seem to realise what damage this will do me. Half the people here already don't like me because I'm American. And then half the gentleman just want to dance with me so they can go back to their friends and laugh about my mannerisms. It's fine for you, you're already accepted here, you have already found a woman who wants to marry you." She speaks through gritted teeth, she doesn't want the other couples swirling around them to hear otherwise there will be two stories in the papers.

"I didn't think any of that bothered you? I didn't think you wanted to marry in England?"

"For all that complaining you did about being tied down by your position and what is expected of you I would have thought you would understand that this is what my parents want and I am obliged to fulfil their wishes." She doesn't mean to snap, she really doesn't. But the problem is somewhere along the way she had trusted Mr Crawley and he had shattered that trust she had encased him in, and now all she can think to do is punish him – despite the fact it had been her that had made him into something he is not. It doesn't help that despite having hardly spoken to him in the six weeks she has been in London, she had not once fallen asleep without reading his letter and letting her mind drift back over those memories of Paris.

"You're right. I am sorry." He laughs softly. "Maybe I am getting too well versed in the habit of apologising." She doesn't laugh with him, despite her best efforts and his apology she will still have to face the gossip and then there is her mother's wrath which is sure to be massive and of long duration. Her mother will not be pleased that all those long lectures she had given to her about the correct etiquette had been abandoned and she has allowed a man to take advantage of her status as an outsider to dance with her twice – even if they had met Mr Crawley in Paris.

"Perhaps, Lord Downton, if you behaved more suitably and said a little less of what you do not mean you might find you end up apologising less." His eyebrows only flicker a very tiny bit at her impertinent remark, which annoys her, why is he not leaping to defend himself as he would have in Paris? If anything, he seems amused by her comments. If her mother could hear her she would be sent home immediately, but as it is she cannot. Besides, what is the harm in being a little bit sharp with a man who is engaged to someone else?

"I would much rather you called me Mr Crawley. I believe it is you, Miss Levinson, that has me doing so much apologising. I have never met a woman who manages to rile me quite as much as you do."

"And I have never met a man that when engaged, spends the two most significant dances at one of the most important balls of the year dancing with another woman."

"Lady Evelyn is not in attendance tonight and as there are so few gentleman and a great many ladies I thought I ought to dance." Cora had noticed Lady Evelyn's absence, of course she had when half the evening had been spent looking in Mr Crawley's direction and his fiancée, by definition, always stands by his side.

"Of course, but _two_ dances, with _one_ lady, _in a row."_

"Miss Levinson, can I ask you something?" She feels the music reaching its end but she holds her gaze in his, after all, they have another dance to go.

"Of course, we are dancing and conversation is, I think, necessary."

"Is your only issue with dancing with me twice to do with the fact I am engaged to Evelyn?"

"I don't think it is fair to her or to me. She will question your affection and you are setting a scandal alight at my door."

"And if I told you the reason Lady Evelyn is not present is that I have told her we will never be married, what would you say then?" The music has stopped but neither of them let go of each other, she just stares at him, not sure what to say. In the hushed silence of a few seconds as the orchestra find their music for the final waltz, Cora's thoughts swirl.

At first, she thinks he is joking (the article had explained in so much detail exactly how he proposed in that gazebo at the Derby), but there is a truth in his eyes that she cannot dispute – and it would explain why Lady Evelyn (who up until this point has been tied to him at the hip) is not present this evening. As the realisation that he might not be engaged takes hold, a weight she had not realised had been sitting over her seems to lift. She allows the tingling she had felt earlier at his touch on her back to fill her head, the press of his thumb just above her knuckles suddenly feels like it ignites.

"I am sorry if that is the case, you seemed very happy with Lady Evelyn." He laughs, a short, soft chuckle.

"You don't think that for a second, you can't, you didn't even know her and you hardly know me." He steps forwards into the first step of the waltz, between two other couples, her foot moves back with his without her having to think about it. She doesn't know what to say in reply, so she lets herself finally listen to the tune to which they are dancing. She realises she recognises the waltz, Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty Waltz. As it is one of her favourites she relaxes still further, ignoring the whispers that are already fluttering about the room, flying from one person to the next as revelations start swooping about Mr Crawley's engagement and Lady Evelyn's absence.

They dance in companionable chatter, discussing Paris, books, the music and the parts of London that she has seen until the music slows and he walks them slowly to the side of the room, back to her parents. She turns to face him and he leans forward, rather unexpectedly, and smiling mischievously whispers by her ear.

"There is something else I have been meaning to tell you Miss Levinson." She takes a deep breath, not daring to lift her eyes to look over his shoulder, because she can feel the looks on the back of her neck, the gossip that will definitely find itself to the pages of tomorrows papers. "You look very beautiful this evening." Her cheeks flame and she keeps her eyes dropped as he stands to talk with her parents for a few minutes.

He offers to walk her to the cloakroom to collect her coat and with the insistent look of her mother she obliges. He takes the coat from the footman and she shivers not from the cold breeze coming from the open doorway, but the warmth of his fingers on the curve of her shoulder and lower neck. She turns to thank him, and his eyes, as they had that first time arrest her attention. The blue is brighter than she has seen it since Paris, and a sparkle of something very boyish – like she had seen as he had grinned at her across the ballroom – is hidden in their depths. A hint of something that thrills her.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: For those of you that left reviews last time, thank you so much! They mean a great deal. I am sorry this update has taken so long, my summer has rather taken over! I have also been experiencing a great deal of writers block which means I still haven't progressed beyond writing chapter 16, and since I don't want to give you guys a massive gap at some point I was slowing down the updates!**

 **But anyway, enough of that, I hope you enjoy this one, and please leave a review if you do. Cobert love xx**

* * *

 **Chapter 10 – late May 1888**

The week following that first dance with Mr Crawley is one her mother had dreamt of before the season had begun – one of her three 'admirers' (as her father was jokingly calling them) called every day with some new preposition for an outing. Mr Wakely had formerly accompanied her family grouping to the ball she had attended the previous evening, and tonight she was to be taken to the music concert with the Prince and no doubt by tomorrow Mr Crawley will have invited her to some other event.

While it thrills her mother, Cora has rather more difficulty with this method of selecting a suitable husband (because now that she has three gentlemen following her about her mother is not going to let her remain unmarried) because she cannot seem to find sufficient time to actually get to know the gentlemen. When they are driven to balls her parents sit watching, at concerts they are in silence and the more time that passes the more her mind toys with those weeks in Paris and the forbidden walks that had allowed her at least some privacy to get to know Mr Crawley.

"Miss, your gloves." Cora is broken from her reverie by Emma, who holds her gloves out for her to take.

"Thank you." Cora takes them and slides them gently up her arms before standing to assess her look in the mirror. Her mother had tried to persuade her to wear her blue dress, saying that made her much prettier than the pink she has chosen but Cora had insisted – she wanted to save the blue one for the next time Mr Crawley was accompanying her. It was stupid really (as her mother had told her) to want to look her best for a man who had much less consequence than the Prince – who by all accounts is a firm favourite with the Queen – but somehow Paris and Mr Crawley, penetrate her thoughts in a way that the Prince, with his funny squinting eyes and moustache do not.

"If I might say so Miss, without wishing to be impertinent, you can do far better than the Prince." Cora spins on the spot, are her thoughts that easy to decipher?

"How on earth did you know that was where my thoughts were?"

"I know you well Miss, a certain look comes over your face and I know you are thinking about these English men."

"I am not sure there is anything better than a Prince, Emma, and he is a favourite of the Queen."

"If you say so, Miss. But from where I stand, thinking only of your happiness and bright spirit, I think you could do better." Cora adjusts her glove at her elbow, disliking how the seam does not sit straight.

"And what about these other English men, Mr Wakely and Mr Crawley, what do you think of them?"

"They both, I think, make you happier than the Prince. You always seem less tense when it is one of them who has accompanied you somewhere." Cora reaches for a perfume as Emma collects the last of the day's clothes and heads to the door.

"You have seen them both, been in their company when you have chaperoned me, which one do you prefer?" Her maid smiles briefly as she picks up a stray hair pin from the floor.

"The answer to that Miss, is not for me to tell you, but for you to find out." Before Cora can query her maid as to that odd answer – an answer that seems to suggest she herself is aware of the answer – the door is thrown open by her mother.

"He is here early Cora, you must get downstairs, it is very bad to keep a gentleman waiting." She obliges her mother, and meeting Isabella on the landing they descend together. Isabella was not joining them tonight, as was usual given her condition. Isabella acted as her chaperone during the day, during walks in the parks, shopping trips and when gentlemen called in the visiting hours. Whilst her mother was always in charge of her in the evening, leaving Isabella in peace in her own house to rest. It was the part of the day that Cora disliked the most, Isabella was a far pleasanter chaperone.

"Miss Levinson, Duchess," he drops his head in recognition of Isabella, before turning back to her, "you look very fetching in that pink Miss Levinson." At first these compliments had made her blush, particularly when they had first started being added to the conversations she was having with the Prince, but they did not anymore. As they had become more frequent, from not just the Prince but Mr Crawley and Mr Wakely she had learnt to just thank them and move the conversation on. It was strange, she had always dreamed of a man complimenting her dress but she found it all so false, as if remarking on her outfit was something that they thought women needed to hear thousands of time just to make sure they accepted a proposal when it came. Maybe it worked with some women, the vain ones, who liked to be complimented on their attire and enjoy the thrill of a gentleman admitting he finds her attractive but she is not like that. She was not going to let a few well-placed compliments overtake her. What she had told Mr Crawley in Paris was still true, she wanted a man who looks further than what she is wearing and finds her other qualities – the ones that might make her a good wife, not the ones that even her brother would admit to her having.

"I think the appropriate answer to that is, thank you." The footman helps her on with her coat while Isabella settles into a chair in the hall, she had found the last month of her pregnancy (since the presentation ball) more trying than she might like to admit, but both Cora and her parents had noticed how often she rubbed her lower back and settled into a chair with a soft sigh. At six months pregnant, and having become much larger in a short space of time, she did well never to complain – ever since she had first felt the baby move a week ago she had been in a state of complete happiness.

"You don't seem very pleased with my compliment, Miss Levinson?" The Prince helps her into the carriage and her parents follow close behind.

"Everyone seems to be complimenting my appearance at the moment, the result being I hardly notice such compliments anymore." The conversation to the concert hall is a four way one, which pleases Cora because it means the focus is far less on her. The Prince is very nice, and she would not hesitate in calling him a friend but she does not want to marry him. Not just because she has dreamed about loving her husband but simply because she had a feeling he is hiding something from her. He has a massive family, lots of cousins, and yet she had been introduced to none of them. When she asks about them he just changes the topic of conversation. At first, she thought it was because he was too modest and didn't wish to talk about his splendid background, but the more Cora had tried to delve, the more she had the feeling that perhaps it was more to do with the fact he either had not told his family about her, or if he had, they had disapproved. She has decided that tonight she is not going to let him refuse to answer her questions about his family and if it turned out (as she suspected) that they do not approve of her she would make it quite clear that she was not putting him in such a position.

Arriving at the concert hall she is not given a chance to admire the architecture of the building, before she is being shuffled inside, the Prince having dipped his head beside her and pressed her forward. She doesn't look up either, she had learnt his silent signals in the weeks of the season that have passed, and the dipped head and soft touch on her back means that he has spotted some reporter who has been tipped off about the Prince's whereabouts.

Safely inside they find their seats in the third row back by the aisle and Cora is left feeling rather uncomfortable to find that her parents have been sat on the opposite side of the aisle in the seats one row behind. Her mother can still see her of course, but that did not change the fact that with them that far away any conversation the Prince might wish to have with her is now completely a private one.

"There is something I very much wish to talk to you about Miss Levinson." She curls and then uncurls her lips before she looks up into his expectant gaze – can he read her thoughts? "Something important."

"I see, and you want to discuss this now, before the concert?"

"Well, yes, I want to put the idea to you and let you think about it." Cora nods slowly, her breath getting caught in her throat. This is the moment she is meant to think of something else to say, to put him off posing the question that she can already guess the substance of, but she cannot. "You know how I talked about you coming to watch me play cricket with my family at my home?" Cora nods again, she had heard rather more about cricket than she might have liked, however many times he, and Mr Crawley (much to her annoyance), had tried to explain it to her she still doesn't even understand what the bat looks like. "Well, I had hoped that when you come to Cumberland Lodge, I might be able to introduce you to my parents as my fiancée."

"I see, what you wish me to think about is whether I would like to become your wife."

"Yes, that is exactly what I want. There is no pressure." The way he looks at her, though, seems to suggest the exact opposite. The pressure seems to leak out from his small eyes, a soft begging look filters from the crinkles of his brows. She looks down at her lap, she doesn't need to do any thinking she knows already that her answer is no. But how can she communicate that to the Prince without completely hurting his feelings? He was only asking her to think about it, but she cannot help feeling that this is the wrong thing to do, not when even time will have no effect on her decision. It was strange to think that she was in a position to marry an English Prince, every girl's dream, and yet there is no way she is taking it up. She is not going to marry simply for material means and Prince Christian, however wealthy and ambitious he may be, is not someone she can see herself being married to.

"Might I be honest with your highness?"

"I wish you would call me Christian. But of course, I have been honest with you."

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way, I do enjoy your company, but I don't believe I will ever wish to marry you." She sees him visibly take a large breath of air, which she could have predicted, he was bound to be sure of a positive response. He recovers quickly enough, as all well-bred gentlemen do.

"Might I ask why?"

"It is nothing against you, it is more about what I want from marriage. Perhaps I am naïve about it all, but I would really like to feel something a little more than a brotherly friendship with the man I decide to marry."

"And you don't think I can offer you that? Or perhaps you have found someone else with whom you have this connection?" Cora dips her head, it was something she had noticed about the Prince, he seemed very perceptive. Most people would just assume they are lacking, but the Prince had instead sensed that her thoughts were maybe drifting elsewhere.

"I am not sure either of those are completely true, but they are both somewhat true."

"I see." He curls his hands together in his lap and she sits back carefully in her chair, the weight of the conversation hanging over any pleasant thoughts she might have had regarding the concert. Music was something she very much enjoyed, and she enjoyed nothing more than the classical orchestra playing a selection of symphonies, but suddenly with the Prince sat beside her and the weight of her future bearing down on her, her thoughts just swim. Marriage had seemed such a distant thing, even as she had stepped into the carriage this evening and now she is facing her first proposal.

Marriage suddenly seems such a long word. The eight letters seem to loom larger in her mind than ever. Reflecting mainly her terror and the realisation that whomever she chooses is going to be for life, possibly as many decades as the length of the word. She realises, sitting there and watching the musicians tune up, that this is not just about marriage either, there is a whole new culture for her to truly understand, along with a whole set of unspoken rules that have already tripped her up more than once this season. Then there is the fact that for her, marriage is more than simply choosing a man to be the father of her children and the keeper of her house, she is choosing someone who will help her to understand all of those worries, as well as someone to comfort her in the inevitable moments of homesickness that will follow her marriage. Maybe, in her naïve way, that was why her mind had settled on this idea of love. It wasn't just about novels and love being a young girl's dream, it was her mind facing up to reality – she will cope better if the man she chooses truly understands her and truly wants her. She will be better able to make a new home with him and leave her childhood behind.

"Christian?" She tries out the strange first name on her lips, and finds that maybe it is less uncomfortable than she had imagined it might be, he turns to face her. "Have you told your parents, or your grandmother, about your plan to marry me? Do they know about me?" His face (which had stretched into a smile when he had used his first name) falls flat. The lines across his forehead appear and his nose crumples at the mention of the topic he has tried so hard to avoid – the answer is in his face. "They don't do they? Why not?"

"I should have known that you would figure me out, Miss Levinson. An intelligent woman like yourself was never going to be fooled, regardless of how many times I dodged your questions. No, they don't know. I was planning on having your acceptance and your father's permission before I mentioned it to them." Cora looks at his hands where he wrings them between each other in his lap. She decides it is best not to say anything, she does not need his words to tell her why. They would disapprove – an English Prince marrying an American of completely new money – and he would have to give up his title and inheritance, regardless of whether he is his grandmother's favourite grandchild. They must sit in silence for at least a minute before he ventures to speak again. "You haven't asked me why I haven't told them."

"I don't need to ask. I know why you haven't told them, they will disapprove. What I don't understand is why you have wasted your time flattering me and taking me here and there when you knew this would be the outcome? When you know that the only way you can marry me is if you give up everything." He looks down, averting his eyes from hers as she finishes speaking. When he looks back up, as the conductor lifts his hands to begin the first piece, his eyes are slightly glassy but mainly they just seem to stare into hers, soaking her up. She would flinch, and indeed she does shiver, but not because the look scares her but because she knows why nothing had stopped him pursuing her. He speaks the words at the same time her mind has lined them up together.

"I would give it all up for you, Miss Levinson, without a second thought, and I will, because I'm in love with you."

* * *

Robert stares transfixed at the back of the empty chair. The golden embroidery certainly sets it out as a chair belonging to the Duke of Dascombe – the monogram of the title is even incorporated into the design. The room itself exudes the wealth of the Duke, but Robert had noticed almost immediately that it is different to when he had last seen the room, it is less cluttered and more refreshing, no doubt the work of the American Duchess. Somehow, the grandness of the room, with all the monogramed chairs and the vast mantelpiece with the present LordDascombe's portrait hanging over it has been made simpler by removing some of the heavily pregnant Duchess sits quietly in the corner doing some embroidery. Robert would not be able to speak to her even if he wished to given the fact Mrs Levinson, as usual, seems ready to talk enough for all four people in the room.

"The Prince seems fit to become a very agreeable companion for our daughter. Only this morning he called quite unexpectedly and asked her for this walk in the park. They should be back soon, I made sure to tell her maid that they weren't to be out any longer than an hour." Robert gulps for what must be the fifth occasion of the last ten minutes at the mention of the prince. Maybe, he should go? It is becoming abundantly clear that Mrs Levinson is determined to have Prince Christian for a son-in-law and that Miss Levinson, despite her fiery temperament and desire for something more in marriage will not go against her parents.

"Cora told us that you and Lady Evelyn were not getting married despite what the papers said, we are very sorry to hear that." Mr Levinson most definitely has better manners than his wife, manners which have stopped Robert from getting up before now.

"Don't be sorry. I learnt something important about people, they change." He can see Mrs Levinson opening her mouth, but before she can the door to the drawing room opens and Miss Levinson appears, her coat and hat still in place. Robert stands as she rather hurriedly apologises for missing his arrival, he replies only to tell her not to worry – after all he had not really planned the visit. Prince Christian enters just behind her and refusing Mrs Levinson's entreaties to stay for tea, asks Mr Levinson for a quiet word.

Robert bites his lips, he knows what that means, and by the smile on Mrs Levinson's face she knows what it means too. Robert stands to leave as Mrs Levinson follows her husband out the door, a wide smile on her face.

"I think I should go, you're clearly all very busy." Miss Levinson looks up as he strides to the door and the sight of her own lip gripped between her teeth makes him stop.

"Please don't. I…that is, why don't we sit and have a cup of tea. Let me just remove my coat and hat." She leaves the room and Robert moves himself back to the chair, his head heavy. Miss Levinson is his only chance at succeeding this season, and saving his family (a point his father had not yet failed to mention at least ten times a day) and it appears she is about to be engaged to a Prince. He is about to say something he shouldn't when the one person left in the room clears her throat. Robert turns to the Duchess.

"She isn't going to marry him, Lord Downton. Whatever Mrs Levinson wants, Cora will not be persuaded to marry a man she doesn't like." Robert turns his head to assess the pregnant Duchess, who's eyes are fixed firmly on her embroidery. The door reopens to Miss Levinson's small frame, and Robert is momentarily shocked to see that her blouse is bright orange, a very strange colour choice for such a young woman.

"Mr Crawley, I apologise again for not being here when you arrived."

"The Prince had called, Miss Levinson, and he comes first. I might be a future Earl, but I am no Prince." She smiles at his teasing, that small hesitant curl of her lips that Robert finds annoyingly alluring. "I came to invite you to Wimbledon next week, but I expect you will have had a prior invitation, so maybe we should content ourselves with discussing books?"

"I haven't had a prior invitation actually, and I will be very happy to accept yours." It is his turn to look mildly embarrassed, and his brow furrows as his head churns with thoughts about whether the Duchess can possibly be right – has Miss Levinson turned the Prince down? If she has, will he have a chance and if she hasn't what on earth is he going to do? "Books seems a little insignificant when your thoughts are clearly on the conversation my parents are having with the Queen's grandson." Robert looks up from where he has been staring at the floor to see the small curl of her lips spread into a full smile – her eyes twinkling. He shakes his head slowly from side to side, he had never met someone so completely unrelated to him who can read him so well.

"It is none of my business Miss Levinson."

"And yet you want to know it." Her eyes are dancing, but the closer Robert looks, the longer he holds her gaze, the more he sees them faltering, the more he sees a darkness behind the brilliant blue that seems to be bleeding out from her very soul. "He has proposed, that is what he is telling my parents. But I haven't given him an answer, things are rather complicated, and I hardly know him."

 _Hardly know him._

The phrase rings in his ears as she says something about how difficult her mother is going to be. If she hardly knows the Prince, and will not accept him on that point, having spent most nights of the season with him pressed to her side Robert cannot see a path for him in all of this – not after he has only spent the last couple of weeks really trying to impress her. There had been Paris, yes, but that was ages ago now.

"I am not sure you are going to be able to get to know any man more than you have Prince Christian, the season is not really designed for properly getting to know someone. In fact, I don't think it is even designed for anything that is sensible and rational." She laughs very softly, but her eyes are still hiding something he cannot understand.

"If it were sensible and rational one would spend much more time outside rather than in all these stuffy ballrooms. Then, on the wet days, everyone should go to the library and read. That is what I call rational." He laughs and leans forward, he had been right in his first estimation of her in Paris, she really would fit exactly the image of a wife which he wanted; taking walks with him, getting to know the tenants. If only he had followed that thought through and not be so stupid as to ignore her when they had first arrived in London, not only has be lost valuable time with her but there was the question of whether she would ever forgive him for being so obnoxious.

"Indeed, I quite agree but if you will allow me to tease you Miss Levinson," he looks up to gauge her reaction, which seems to be contemplating exactly what he is going to say, "I do think you might enjoy a little less of it than most, simply because you cannot ride." A very enticing blush erupts across her face, and Robert grins.

"I have never found that being unable to ride has stopped me from enjoying something that someone else enjoys." Her eyebrows arch, and Robert smiles, it was good to see that he has managed to remove that hesitation he had seen when she had first arrived back.

"Would you contemplate learning to ride, when you are married and settled in your new home here?"

"I am not sure contemplation comes into it, Mr Crawley, no doubt my husband will demand that I learn to ride. Would you expect me to ride?" He feels, as he seems to far too often with Miss Levinson, as though they are on the cusp of something. Not just anything either, but the edge of a territory they seem to stray into far too often – that of becoming overly familiar and talking in a manner that in no way represents their relationship to each other. The way she eyes him now, as if trying to trick him into saying something without thinking, puts him on edge. He is desperate to know if she teases and smiles like this with the Prince or Mr Wakely, if she tries so obviously to derail their thoughts and learn about their views on things by a bluntness that he has never seen in any other woman.

"I would not force anyone into doing something they did not wish to do." They fall into a lapse of silence and Robert takes the opportunity to think rationally about what he should say next, rather than be drawn in by her eyes. He needs to make some kind of impression, and quickly, with other men finding her as beguiling as he is the competition is decidedly fierce. If only there was something neutral to discuss – something that puts him in a good light but is not simply a discussion about books or paintings.

"I have been meaning to say since you decided to refresh our acquaintance, that I did receive the note you left me in the bookshop in Paris." Robert's eyes widen, and he gestures lightly to the figure of the Duchess, now stretching her back in front of the window. "She won't tell, which is rather why I mentioned it now, while my parents are missing." Robert nods slowly, and taking one last glance at the figure in the window he decides she is telling the truth – the Duchess doesn't even seem to be listening.

"I have been meaning to apologise for ever leaving it for you, it was a reckless thing to do. But, I am pleased you got it, I didn't think there was much chance that you would, but I am pleased you did." This was hardly his finest moment, and not something he would have chosen to discuss, but despite all of that there is a silly joy that has filled him. To know she had found his note and that his gamble had paid off makes him feel like he had felt as a boy running down the stairs on Christmas morning to see if Father Christmas had come. "I wrote it in rather a hurry but those weeks in Paris are some of the fondest memories I have and when I was called back to England by my father I had to try and convey to you how grateful I was that you had been a part of that, but I couldn't put it in the letter I sent to your father so…well, I did something very silly. In fact, it is probably a good job you were intelligent enough to see through my small hint in your father's letter and save us both from disaster." She laughs very softly, a blush tinging her cheeks at the compliment.

"Perhaps it was silly, but I appreciate the gesture for what it was and I am certain my intelligence had nothing to do with it."

"Which only means you're far too modest, Miss Levinson. Which, I think, and do correct me if I'm wrong, means I've just identified one of those qualities you teased me about discovering in Paris." She blushes prettily again and Robert smiles to himself, his life would be quite complete if he could see her blush like that every day. But to do that, he needs to persuade her to marry him, something that he knows is very much an uphill struggle, with a Prince and charming Mr Wakely to compete with.

"I am not sure I am at liberty to tell you if I think you're right. It is not for a woman to boast about her qualities." Her smile suggests otherwise though, and Robert is sure she is pleased he has remembered that conversation from three months ago.

"How is your French book going? It was a Zola one, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I've not finished it quite yet though, translating straight from the French obviously makes things a little harder, and it takes longer to read like that."

"You like it though? It was what you were expecting?"

"Yes, definitely, I'm sure it won't be long before he is publishing his next one." She laughs. "So, I better keep going." He laughs with her, although he had never read any Zola (language had obviously been a barrier for him) he did know that the author seemed determined to produce a new book every year. "Have you asked my parents about the Wimbledon trip?"

"Yes, I asked them when I arrived and they have agreed, as long as you are happy with it."

"I am, I have always enjoyed tennis and it will be quite something to see some of the famous Wimbledon tournament. I imagine mother wasn't pleased about the invitation?" She smiles coyly.

"How did you know that?" His tone is heavy with sarcasm. Mrs Levinson had not been at all pleased at his suggestion, her hopes had clearly been pinned on the Prince asking Cora to the tennis.

"It doesn't take a genius to work out how my mother works, and since I have lived with her all my life, I am not boasting when I say I know her better than most."

"Your mother and my mother have rather a lot in common Miss Levinson, but I would never boast to knowing her better than anyone else. In fact, I would go as far as saying that there is nobody on this earth that understands my mama."

"I cannot say you fill me with very much enthusiasm to ever meet her, Sir."

"Perhaps not, but I think I should introduce you to my parents and my older sister, Rosamund. It was another reason for asking you to the tennis, they will also be in attendance." He sees her visibly gulp. "Mother can be difficult but my father is very pleasant and I am sure you will get on with Rosamund." Her eyes have lost the sparkle they'd had before, and Robert wishes he hadn't said anything. How was it that every time he talks with her he manages to say something that upsets her? Before he can apologise the drawing room door opens and her mother comes racing across the room, her ginger hair like a streak of fire.

"Oh, Cora sweetheart, why did you not mention before that you are going to marry Prince Christian!"

"Mother I – " But Robert watches as she gives up trying to tell her mother the truth. The prince enters the room with Mr Levinson and Robert stands to leave, he was most definitely surplus to the family circle. He hears slow heeled footsteps behind him, and finds that the Duchess has stood and is following him out into the hallway. He takes his hat and coat from the footman in the time it takes for the Duchess to enter the hallway having shut the drawing room door behind her.

"I know it all looks very glum for you now but I assure you, I will do everything in my power to make sure the Levinsons' see sense with regards to their daughter's marriage, particularly Mrs Levinson." Robert twists his hat around his arm, the conversation he'd had with Mr Levinson in Paris coming back to him. He might hold his daughter's happiness a little higher on his list of priorities than his wife but he still wanted to marry his daughter off in England so that she will not have to witness him dying, the Prince would be an ideal choice – there is no way she will not be looked after.

"I am not sure you have as much power as you might think Duchess. Mr Levinson is as set as his wife when it comes to his daughter making a good match." She glances about her, subtly dismissing the servants before she continues, her voice low.

"If you mean Mr Levinson's desire to have Miss Levinson as far from America as possible when he becomes ill then I know all about it. I assume he told you in Paris?"

"Yes, although goodness only knows why. But all that aside, Duchess, the Prince is a fine match, what on earth can you tell them to dissuade them from it? And why on earth are you helping me, we hardly know each other?"

"I am not really doing this for you, I am doing it for Cora." Robert tilts his head in question. "I don't want her to be as unhappily married as I am and with you I think she has a very good chance of being happy." Robert drops his gaze, did she really have a chance when he is, really and truthfully, just a fortune hunter? It cannot be that someone like Miss Levinson, so pure and intelligent, can do no better than a fortune hunter.

"I am not sure, if you knew more about me you would agree." The Duchess lifts her eyebrows slowly before turning back to the drawing room. She stops at the door, turning back to him.

"You forget, Lord Downton, my husband is a scoundrel, he knows everybody's secrets because he has to use them to blackmail them. When I ask, he tells me them. So yes, I don't doubt that my friend's enormous dowry is an object of yours to save your crumbling home, but, I've learnt a lot about people since living here. I have been able to watch a lot of people, listen to a lot of things, simply because I am always somewhat secluded from society, and from that I have learnt to identify a good person when I see one, and you are a good person."


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: So, first of all a massive apology that this has taken so long. I have been so busy studying for finals and sorting jobs etc that I haven't even had the time to proof read the chapters I wrote years ago. I have had lots of questions about whether I intend to finish this story - I do!** **Definitely. I have about 16 chapters written, and I think my plan has about 23 chapters so I really should be almost there except time is not on my side!**

 **I have received a number of favourites and follows to this story and some of my others in the last week or so which has persuaded me to get back to this. Please please review, it might inspire me to use some more of my limited free time for this rather than other things.**

 **RECAP: Cora and Robert met before the London season in Paris. They had lots of conversations! When they both arrived in London, Robert initially ignored Cora but since he has ended his courtship of his childhood friend Evelyn he is determined to marry Cora for her money (and because he likes her a lot). His relationship with Evelyn ended when she leaked false information to the press that they were engaged. Cora has been courted by Prince Christian Victor (grandson to Queen Victoria) and he has proposed. However, Cora suspects him of trying to use her to make a statement to his family, who he will not introduce her to.**

 **Cobert love to you all.**

* * *

 **Chapter 11 – Beginning of July 1888**

She's wearing blue.

It's the first thing he notices. Despite the fact both her parents stand between them, he can still spy her large dark blue hat and its matching jacket from where she stands some way back from her parents. He sees her soft attempt at a smile next, the little flutter of her eyelashes as she dips her face to try and hide her pleasure.

"Morning Lord Downton, it is very nice to see you again." Mr Levinson shakes his hand generously. In comparison, his wife only offers a very weak smile which Robert returns with much more enthusiasm than she truly deserves. Mrs Levinson might be set on her daughter marrying the Prince but Robert is not going to be deterred that easily. Miss Levinson and her fortune are his and his family's only hope.

It had been stupid of him to suppress that realisation for so long, but suppress it he has, and now it is time for action. The grievances towards his parents, as they had droned on about duty, that he had been finding so hard to keep hidden had been replaced by swirling thoughts of Downton and how much he loves his home. No doubt it had been the effect of being away from Downton for so long – distance does make the heart grow fonder. He had come to the realisation that his future wife will be malleable – he might even be able to mould her into the exact image he requires. Whereas, Downton is completely irreplaceable and thus much more worth a sacrifice.

Miss Levinson as it happens, is almost exactly what he would like and, in his opinion, would be quite apt at keeping him content. His mother will argue and perform about her nationality but she would be a good, if unrelenting, teacher for Miss Levinson.

With all that mind, he has decided to use every power in his favour to capture Miss Levinson and her fortune. Every minute will be spent in her company if that is what is necessary. Today, is the beginning. The decision is made and he is going to get to the crux of the matter today, there is no longer any time for simply being nice to Miss Levinson, it is time to make his intentions clear.

"The carriage is waiting just outside when you're all ready." Mr Levinson nudges his wife in the direction of the door with a grin to Robert they step out the door. Robert steps tentatively towards Miss Levinson and her eyes dart up to his from beneath the brim of her hat.

"Good morning Mr Crawley."

"Your blue dress is very becoming Miss Levinson, but pray tell have you got such a large wardrobe that you never have to wear anything twice?" She rolls her eyes, a behaviour he had discovered just a week ago and had since tried to get her to do as often as possible.

"You know my mother well enough Mr Crawley to know that enough clothing was purchased for my London season to dress three women. Now, I believe, we have a tennis match to go and watch." She walks without hesitation towards the door, not even giving him a chance to ask to walk her outside. By the time he has stepped out the door, the last heel of her shoe is already disappearing into the carriage.

His mother had not been at all pleased when he had announced his resolution to use the superior carriage to convey the Levinsons to Wimbledon – leaving his parents and sister with the older carriage. His father had been much more co-operative, even going so far as to pat him on the back and murmur lots of words of encouragement.

The arrangement within the carriage at first disheartens him, he had hoped to be able to sit beside Miss Levinson. Instead he finds that the vacant seat is in fact next to Mr Levinson, meaning not only is he not next to Miss Levinson but he is opposite Mrs Levinson and will be contending with her hard stare for the entire journey. He lowers himself into the seat as the steps are folded up and the carriage begins to move.

"Is tennis a favourite of yours Lord Downton?" Mr Levinson, had always come across as a well-bred and sensible man (apart from perhaps him not telling his family about his health) and once more his good breeding was shown in his distaste for awkward silences.

"Please, you all must call me Mr Crawley. Yes, tennis is something I very much enjoy watching, and Wimbledon is the best place for that."

"Indeed, do you play?"

"No, I did try at school but I found cricket to be more to my taste." Mrs Levinson seems to suddenly jump into life, her face erupting into a smile.

"That is like the Prince, he has even invited Cora to his home for some cricket event." Miss Levinson doesn't look up. Robert gulps, if she has been invited to the Prince's home, no doubt to meet his family, maybe even the Queen, time really is running out for his quest to secure her.

"How often do you play cricket, Mr Crawley?" Miss Levinson's quiet voice barely stretches across the gap between them, the fact she is embarrassed by her mother is clear.

"At home, there is a cricket match in the village every year and then I play in the grounds with my cousins quite a bit." She smiles again, no longer sure what to say. To say Miss Levinson is clearly put on edge by her mother would be putting it lightly. Every time he had met Miss Levinson alone they had talked so easily, yet the moment Mrs Levinson is present she becomes fidgety and nervous.

"Is the match in the village with the residents or is it just a family thing?"

"The house, family and servants, play against a team of villagers. It is meant to be friendly, but it always ends up strangely competitive."

"With the amount I have heard about cricket I think I really must see a match." The carriage lapses into a gentle silence, the sounds of a typical London afternoon begin to filter in.

The clipping of the horse hooves, mixes with the jangling of coins and the tapping of walking sticks. The clattering becomes louder as Robert's mind begins to spin, he needs to tell the Levinsons that his parents are going to be joining them at Wimbledon. After all, it's not as though his parents are the easiest people, a little bit of preparation is required.

"I have something I ought to tell you all before we arrive." Miss Levinson's soft blue eyes lift up to his and he sees her visibly gulp, sometimes she seems so young and easily shaken, something that had only increased since the Prince had proposed to her. Yet Robert also knows her to be a silently confident person, not afraid to say what she thinks, and that is the Miss Levinson he needs to find today to keep his own confidence high in the wake of his mother.

"Oh, here we go…" Mrs Levinson starts mumbling in the direction of the window "…he's going to tell us the seats aren't even that good and we're not entitled to any food." Mr Levinson gives her a harsh stare while Miss Levinson blushes a soft shade of pink. Robert decides to ignore the comments, fixing his attention on Miss Levinson.

"My parents and sister are attending Wimbledon today as I thought it would be nice to formally introduce everyone." Mrs Levinson says nothing while her husband simply nods in agreement. Robert keeps his eyes fixed on Miss Levinson and as seconds pass with no answer he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. A spring creaks as he slouches against the backrest. Miss Levinson's fingers keep twisting about in her lap, her pale blue leather gloves almost squeaking with the friction she exerts.

"I hope we have not intruded on what was clearly a family trip Mr Crawley." He looks up suddenly and then has to stifle his laughter, of course Miss Levinson would be more concerned about someone else than the potential terror of meeting his family.

Her eyes are wide, her dark eyelashes flicking closed only once as her pupils dilate, searching his face for an answer. He stares back mesmerized for a second until he blinks and with it, the moment is gone. His heart slows and he remembers he should be giving her an answer.

"Not at all, they're very much looking forward to meeting you." She doesn't look completely convinced with his answer, her head tilting to one side.

"Do you always go to Wimbledon during the season?" She seems to have relaxed now that her mother is completely distracted with looking out the window.

"When I was little I remember it vividly. It was one of the only occasions Rosamund and I were allowed to enjoy the events of the season. In recent years, we haven't attended so often." In fact, this year they were only going because his mother had ranted about it so often. The truth is they cannot really afford it, not with present situations how they are, but his mother had purchased tickets anyway (with the original plan for Lady Evelyn and her parents to join them) which had led to a great deal of arguing that Robert knew the servants hadn't missed. If they aren't more careful, news of his father's financial ruin will be spread within seconds, which is not something he can afford to happen before he has secured Miss Levinson.

"What about cricket, have you ever been to any famous matches?"

"No, I haven't. You know, Miss Levinson, you do very well at appearing interested in a sport you don't even understand." Her eyes shine at his remark and if Robert is not altogether deceived one of her eyebrows also raises almost unperceptively upwards – the Miss Levinson he had met and laughed with in Paris is returning.

"I have been told that is how one secures a husband, Mr Crawley, by making conversation about the things a gentleman likes." Robert doesn't have time to answer as the carriage comes to a stop and the entrance to the lawn tennis club comes into view. He steps down before turning and helping Miss Levinson on the tricky step, at least this time she accepts his assistance.

There is a strange warmth that spreads from his fingers from her hand being in his. The fit of her fingers over his seems slightly too perfect and the moment he had assisted her in the bookshop in Paris flashes across his mind. Before, feeling Miss Levinson's pulse had made him think of being with Clarisse, this time he is more in control of himself and instead his thoughts are subtler, with more focus being on simply how nice it would be to keep a hold of her hand.

"Thank you." Her quiet voice rips him from his reverie at the same time it brings fresh thoughts of Miss Levinson's desirability – it might be quite something to hear her whispering his name. His head spins again and he is only brought back from some very unsuitable imaginings by Miss Levinson gently trying to remove her hand from his. Rather than losing that pleasant contact he takes her hand he tucks it into the crook of his arm.

"My pleasure, Miss Levinson, always." She drops her gaze, leaving him looking at her hat.

"You know, I think your parents might take to me more easily if their first proper view of me is not hanging onto your arm." He begins to chuckle but he is cut off by a familiar voice behind him.

"Well Robert, it seems she is more intelligent than I expected, so that's a good start." Robert swings around, he should have known his mother would be loitering. Miss Levinson's fingers loosen their hold on his arm and he can feel her trying to wriggle them free. He places his hand over hers to still her action, it somehow feels easier to face his mother with Miss Levinson beside him.

"Mama, I thought I said I would meet you at our seats?" Robert knows he doesn't have her attention, her eyes are sweeping over Miss Levinson, surveying her like a cat might eye up a bird before it launches for the kill.

"You must be the young American Robert has told us so much about." His mother predictably drools over the word 'American' as though she gives off a bad smell by simply uttering it.

"I am very pleased to meet you Lady Grantham."

"Of course, you are. Being introduced to potential in-laws is always a significant part of a young woman's life and you must seek to make the right impression." That Miss Levinson is intimidated by his mother is clear. He had hoped that her fiery spirit might have held her in good stead but as ever when his mother is involved, even the strongest quiver in fear.

"Mama, how about I introduce you to Miss Levinson's parents and then we can go and find out seats." He duly makes the introductions and then tunes out of the conversation around him, his eyes return to Miss Levinson. Her eyes aren't sparkling like they had been, his mother has made her doubt herself and Robert knows that Miss Levinson might have an outward appearance of confidence but beneath that she is just a very shy and scared young girl in a foreign land. A young girl that will not cope with too many more of his mother's remarks, leaving him with no choice but to move swiftly – the less she knows about his mother, the better chance his has of securing her.

* * *

Cora takes a deep breath as they step back outside after walking through the corridors beneath the court to find their seats. She takes the time to look around her, to lift herself onto the balls of her feet and admire the court. It is perfectly manicured with just some scuffing along the baseline. Two players are already gently hitting a ball to-and-fro as a warm up to the match they are about to play. Cora recognises a few faces around her, everyone as richly dressed as they are in London ballrooms.

She tightens her grip instinctively on Mr Crawley's arm as she spots Lady Evelyn in the rows of seats, her green eyes already sweeping over her attire – her nose snivelling up in what Cora knows is distaste.

"You've met Mama, Miss Levinson, and I can promise both my sister and my father are far nicer." She gulps softly, she had hoped her discomfort had not been that obvious. Not many people really unnerve her, not when she has grown up with her mother, but Lady Grantham had riled her immediately. She had been more than pleased when Mr Crawley had left her parents with Lady Grantham while they went on to find their seats.

"It wasn't worry about meeting your sister and father which unnerved me. It was Lady Evelyn glaring at me from her seat which made me tense." He had been leaning into her as she had been speaking but now his head snaps up as he seeks out Lady Evelyn. Cora once would have mistaken that decision to him wanting to see Lady Evelyn, but now she knows better. His eyes scan the area and then turn back to her with a look of concern before he simply finds her and then readjusts the way they are standing so their backs are to her.

"I won't let her bother you, Miss Levinson. If I had been more sensible you would not be in such a position so I will not allow you to be made uncomfortable by it. If you are, you must say."

"Thank you." Her voice is quiet, the depth of his remark completely overcoming her. By all accounts he has known Lady Evelyn since he was a young boy, and now he is going to stand between her and Lady Evelyn. It makes her a little nervous, the boldness of the decision to choose her over his childhood friend, and her mind immediately begins racing about what that means for her position in his future.

"I think I see my sister, this way." Cora gasps and her face flushes with warmth as he takes his hand from her arm and presses it into the middle of her back, steering her in the opposite direction to Lady Evelyn. They pass between two rows of people, apologising as people have to shift their feet for them, before striking down another aisle to the front row. She stops before the bottom step, an element of fear rising within her that even the steady stream of tingling across her back from his hand cannot quench.

"Should we not wait for your mother and my parents?"

"Of course not. It will be much nicer for you if Mama is not present, and it will allow Papa and my sister Rosamund to meet you properly." He places his hand on her back again and Cora finds herself naturally relaxing into his hold. Regardless of how unsteady meeting Lady Grantham had made her, she trusts Mr Crawley's judgement and that the rest of his family will be more welcoming.

"If you're sure."

"Miss Levinson, regardless of how I have gone about it, ever since I met you in Paris it has been my intention to introduce you to my family. My mother has had her turn, now it is time to meet my sister and father." She nods and makes to take a step forward, but when she turns back around to watch her footing she is met by the face of a man she knows immediately is Mr Crawley's father. It isn't just that they look quite similar, but the shape of his mouth as he smiles is exactly like Mr Crawley's – the soft crinkling around his eyes. Behind him follows a young woman with flaming red hair, just a little shorter than Mr Crawley.

"Robert, do stop loitering in the aisle and introduce me to your guest."

"Miss Levinson, this is my father, Lord Grantham, and my elder sister, Rosamund."

"I'm very pleased to meet you both and I would like to thank you for the tickets. Myself and my parents are aware of the expense, and are very grateful."

"Not at all Miss Levinson, you and your parents are very welcome." Cora's gaze shifts to Lady Rosamund whose eyes seem to be holding back a crackle of laughter at her father's comment. "Have you been enjoying London Miss Levinson? Robert told us you had spent some weeks in Paris before you came to London, pray tell, which society do you prefer?"

"Well, my Mama made sure we did plenty of shopping in Paris, so my viewing society was rather confined to that which can be found in various boutiques." Lord Grantham laughs, which restores her confidence a little. "I did attend a very nice opera though; would you not agree it was good Mr Crawley?" Mr Crawley flushes red and Cora briefly wishes she had not mentioned the opera, no doubt his thoughts are now flooded with that charming blonde singer he had spent at least one night with. By the look Lord Grantham throws his son, he knows all about it and Cora finds her gaze searching the floor.

"Did you buy any Maison Worth clothes? I have always wanted those but Mama says the colours are too bold." Lady Rosamund's eyes are alight with excitement when Cora looks up. She had thought the young woman was averse to her, and maybe she is, but any conversation would be better than the awkwardness that Cora should have known better than to raise.

"I did purchase some Maison Worth clothes, but your Mother is right, the colours are quite bold, and some of the styles are rather modern." Rosamund nods slowly and then asks for detailed descriptions of the clothes that Cora had purchased and before Cora knows what is happening Mr Crawley has to gently separate their excitable conversation about clothes to lead Cora to her seat. The minute they are sat down (they choose the two seats on the end of the row by the aisle – the rest of the group sitting across the aisle from them) Cora turns towards him.

"I am sorry about the opera comment, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable in front of your father."

"You didn't, not really. He and I have already fallen out about my time in Paris, that is all. Don't worry about it anyway, he likes you, so does my sister."

"I will trust your judgement on that because I hardly know them and we've only spoken a few words. Besides, to me, Mr Crawley, regardless of what your mother thinks, what you think of me is far more important than their opinions. Other people are persuadable and will have to live with a decision that you and I make, but I will not have you deciding something just because other people think it is the right one. It is what I think about the Prince, Mama might be desperate to persuade me, but I will not be swayed and I do not want you to be either." She feels something lift inside her at the release of her thoughts, particularly those regarding the Prince – that was something that had been weighing her down far too much of late. Mr Crawley has no chance to reply as their eyes are diverted to the court – the umpire announcing the beginning of the match.

The first two games pass quickly, the players both holding their opening service games. None of the points are of particular significance, both the players still gently finding their feet on the surface and learning the strengths of their opponent. Cora's mind is engaged thinking about what Mr Crawley might say in reply to her little speech for most of it anyway, and thus she spends more time sipping her champagne to calm her nerves than she does watching the game.

"Miss Levinson," the tone of his voice suggests that he too has had his thoughts occupied with more pressing concerns than the play going on before them, "my mind was made up the minute I ended things with Lady Evelyn. I think very highly of you, and I wish for you to become my wife." Cora takes a deep steading breath which becomes a gasp as he reaches across her lap to take her hand. Her throat constricts as she struggles to find her voice and she gives up, a strange strangled choke emerging from between her lips.

This had been something she had thought of almost unrelentingly since Paris, and yet, as Mr Crawley strings his proposal together all she can think about is how little she knows about him and how abominable his mother is. She forgets the smile she liked to dream about and the blue eyes she sees long after she had last seen him, his laugh and his teasing are all forgotten as reality looms and closes in around her head and voice. She chokes again and she hesitantly raises the glass of champagne to her lips. The liquid fizzes too much in her mouth, the pockets of air bouncing off her gums and the roof of her mouth, making her dizzy as they build up in her nose because she finds herself unable to swallow. When she does eventually let the bubbling liquid descend down her throat she has to take a further breath to stop herself from hiccupping – drinking on an empty stomach had not been a good idea.

"Mr Crawley – " The call for silence by the umpire cuts her short and she is forced to turn her attention to the game.

The minutes drag by as the ball is hurled from one end of the net to the other. Every time it contacts the racquet held by the player at their end of the court Cora feels the vibration of the contact as the player might be, she feels it as the beginning of a headache as each hit seems to bring to mind another argument for or against Mr Crawley's proposal. Only when the crowd applaud does she have some respite – the sudden sharpness of the noise dragging her from her thoughts and forcing her to live in the moment.

If Mr Crawley had told her in Paris that he wished to marry her she would have probably said yes right there and then, but a lot has happened since then. She has been witness to Isabella's marriage, or rather witness to Isabella being abandoned by her husband – of no further use now that she is pregnant. She has also learnt more about the man she had so easily conversed with in Paris, a man who in the first weeks of them both being in London had not spoken more than three sentences to her – in fact, he had been courting another woman openly.

Beyond everything that had happened there was also her own beliefs about marriage and her own situation to consider, including the other gentlemen that seemed to be throwing offers at her feet. She knew that whatever her decision regarding Mr Crawley, her and her mother are definitely going to find themselves arguing because there is no way she is going to marry the Prince. She liked him, but she knew he was keeping their acquaintance from his family because they would disapprove and she was not going to come between him and his family. As for the matter of Mr Crawley, she liked him very much, of all the men she had ever met she can see herself happily situated with him but something about his change of heart after Lady Evelyn and he had split did not hang together. She felt unwilling to agree to anything until she knew a lot more about him – she had only met his family today! Yet, the minute she tried to think of herself living with any other man her head fills with Mr Crawley's blue eyes and his wide smile, was it likely that she would regret being married to him? She thought not. She had to marry in England, and she had to do so this year which meant that Mr Crawley seems by far, to her, the best choice.

"Miss Levinson?" Cora starts at the sound of the crowd and Mr Crawley's gentle touch of her arm. She had not noticed the point being played at all, her eyes must have glazed over as she had focussed on her thoughts.

"I'm sorry. I was thinking. I'm not sure I can give you an answer yet, you see – " She is cut off by him shaking his head.

"No, Miss Levinson, you mistake me. I wasn't proposing as such. I mean…that is what I want to happen but I realise we aren't quite ready for that. We only met a few months ago. No…that was the beginning of me explaining what I want to happen, but the umpire interrupted. In fact, he's probably going to do that now, why don't we go inside for a minute?" Before Cora can think of anything to say Mr Crawley has taken her arm and dragged her to her feet. He releases her arm as they ascend the steps of the aisle back to the passage they entered the court from. Cora can feel the stares of their respective parents as they disappear after only being sat down for about twenty minutes. Lady Grantham evens stands, her face is ashen and her lips are a line, only Lord Grantham's hand stops her from racing after them.

Once they are inside Robert leads them over to a lone pair of chairs around the outside of the refreshment room. She is expecting him to sit down with her, but instead he settles her and then returns to the food tables to collect a small plate of sandwiches for her. He settles next to her, offering her the little finger sandwiches, as he lifts his trousers up a little at the knee to sit down.

"What I was trying to explain earlier, before we kept getting interrupted was that I do intend to make you my wife, but not yet. First, what I want is for you and your parents to join me and my family in Yorkshire, at Downton for August and the autumn so that we can get to know each other a little better in a place that I hope one day you will call home." The sandwich Cora had been gently nibbling gets stuck in her throat. In many ways, an invitation to stay in his home, as a guest, was just as terrifying as a proposal. There will be less society and Mr Crawley's family to converse with daily – one of whom will definitely try and make her life as difficult as possible. There will also be her mother to deal with, who no doubt will try to be thoroughly thwarting because it will mean giving up the Prince's suit, which will annoy her more than anything else. "You haven't said anything Miss Levinson, have I proposed something that you don't like the idea of?"

"No. No…I…the thing is, I worry about my mother's reaction and this is a very big offer for you to make. Have you spoken to your parents? Your mother?"

"My father will agree without question, Miss Levinson, and my mother will follow his example. But _you_ are not against the suggestion?"

"No. Not at all I don't think. I would like to see your home and I haven't seen anything of England yet aside from London and…well, I cannot say all these social events are my favourite kind of thing." She is pleased that she makes him smile softly and she lets herself relax a little, swallowing the last part of her sandwich and taking a silent steadying breath. It seems the decision about what the future holds is decided between them at least.

"So, you will come to Downton?"

"Yes. Yes, I believe I shall. I might have to break the news very gently to Mama though."

"I'm going to leave it to my Papa to tell mine!" They laugh together, just like they had in Paris. As they laugh, they stand, and he tucks her hand into the crook of his arm to head back to their seats.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Thank you all for reading and for leaving reviews. Here is another chapter. Please all stay safe! Cobert love always.**

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

He sees his mother's nose twitch slightly higher into the air, her gaze shifting away from the door (and the honoured guests that have just arrived) to share a look with Lady Shackleton. The look is one of contempt, after all he had complained and argued until the Levinsons were invited to Rosamund's ball. This was a decision his mother was still not at all happy about, something the look she has just shot towards the door screams to the world.

"They're here son, which means you should be over there greeting them." His father's hand presses into the base of his spine, propelling him in that direction. He had rather been hoping he can keep his distance so that he can properly admire Miss Levinson from afar without her immediately noticing him.

Regardless of his father's insistence to move him along his plan is immediately extinguished because Miss Levinson steps out from behind her parents and her eyes find his immediately, a smile spreading across her face seconds after. Her smile brings one to his own face and he finds himself striding forwards, arriving in front of her without even noting what colour she is wearing.

"Lord Downton!" Mrs Levinson's shrill voice interrupts his thoughts, and the brief words his sister had been mumbling to her newest guests. He accepts Mrs Levinson's warm embrace and the kisses she insists on planting on his cheeks. It was the newest greeting she had decided on since the trip to Downton had been finalised and the favouritism she'd had for the Prince had been largely transferred to him. Each day that passed in her company had improved his standing with Mrs Levinson and he didn't doubt that Mr Levinson had also made sure his wife softened the harsh opinion she had originally had of him.

"Mrs Levinson, lovely to see you, as always."

"Quite the charmer, no wonder Cora talks about you so much." Robert watches Miss Levison's face flush a dark pink as Mr Levinson rolls his eyes. To say that Miss Levinson was like her father was an understatement, she was without doubt the female version of her father. The realisation, as it always does, makes him wonder how on earth she is going to cope when she finds out her darling Papa is dying.

"Mr Levinson, I am pleased you could make it. I believe my father was eager to discuss some things with you, my sister will take you both in that direction." Rosamund steps forward and eagerly starts chatting to Mr and Mrs Levinson, throwing him a bright-eyed look and a raised eyebrow that definitely spells out: _could you be any more obvious?_

He pins his arms behind his back as he steps towards her slight frame. Her eyes are cast to the floor, the redness her mother had caused to stir in her cheeks still tinging the arch of her cheekbone. Her velvet gloves seem to be her focus, most specifically the dance card enclosed between then that her fingers are twisting around and around. Her red skirt swishes on the floor, two dyed red shoes peeking out from the bottom. The bodice of her dress is cherry red down her sides, the central panel is pristine white with red buttons running dramatically up the centre to mirror the style Robert knows is seen on corsets, leaving no doubt that Mrs Levinson's large opinions had been the making of the dress. A red ribbon trickles around the top of the bodice in sharp, tight fashion, drawing Robert's attention and no doubt every other man's, from Miss Levinson's face to her full bosom.

"I think you ought to stop twiddling that dance card around and instead let me sign my name on it." She looks up very slowly.

"Mr Crawley, I must tell you, the dress – "

"Looks wonderful, but as ever it is the wearer that has made it spectacular." She blushes as red as the dress and lets him take her dance card. His hand brushes over her wrist reminding him of the incident in the bookshop, although, unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) this time he is unable to feel her pulse because her velvet gloves are too thick.

"Red is not – "

"Miss Levinson, you need to stop panicking. I will dance the three most significant dances of the night with you and no harm will come to you in a room of people, just don't let anyone lead you outside."

"Not even you?" He laughs, it was nice to see that he had already relaxed her at least a little bit. Her eyes flicker away from him at the same moment he senses the presence of someone behind him. He turns to see Mr Philip Wakely. He steps forward to speak to Miss Levinson and Robert feels his heart accelerate slightly as he leans forward and whispers something to Miss Levinson, eliciting a small smile as she hands him her dance card. No doubt this is just the beginning of a long line of gentleman making their way around the room to secure a dance, at least Philip keeps his eyes above board which is more than can be said for most of the men she was going to have to dance with.

He looks around the ballroom, already noting lots of eyes resting on her. It felt wrong to leave her to these men, but equally he is not sure he can stand beside her and watch the ogling eyes. Perhaps the small size of the ballroom doesn't help. If the room were the size of many of the other rooms in which he had been this season the gazes would be less noticeable because he would be unable to scan the crowd quite so easily.

Despite being one of the smaller ballrooms Robert had always admired its character. The alcove that sat at one end – the perfect size for an orchestra – had been a genius design decision. It stopped the dreadful part of having to have a band suspended on a platform somewhere in the room, and thus reducing floor space for dancing and socialising (as happened in many other houses). The alcove held a special place in his heart from his toddler years when he and Rosamund had hid from nanny in a smaller alcove that was hidden in one of the walls. It was mirrored on the opposite side of the room where rather than the orchestra, his mother liked to arrange large flower displays. The colour of the walls in the room greatly added to the cosiness, the really pale blue walls with the cream panelling, the intricacy of the detail on these really coming to light with the glow of the candles. The dark oak doors didn't look out of place either when complimented by the studies of various Roman gods that were a white themselves but mounted on an oak coloured background with spectacularly intricate borders. What he truly adores though is the marble pillars in the front of the alcove – the dark yellow, almost mustard colour, mottled with a dark moss green shade.

"Might you walk me over to my parents?" Her voice pulls him out of his reverie, one which he realises he has been in for the last ten minutes.

"Of course." Her fingers fidget like they always do on his elbow, her dance card (which is now almost completely full) swings about, occasionally hitting his side. Her fingers tighten on his arm when she notices that her parents are still in deep conversation with his, their mother's obviously sparring. Although Robert doesn't doubt that just the sight of his mother is enough to unnerve her. To say that his mother's reception of her has not improved would be putting things mildly. Since she had met them more and more his mother's distaste had only escalated – corresponding with the number of times Mrs Levinson opened her mouth. Miss Levinson had come under fire with his mother about her nationality in every conversation they'd had, the result being, Miss Levinson had sunk further into the shield she only seemed to put up in her mother's presence – she seldom speaks in front of her unless a question is posed to her directly.

Their parents go separate ways before they reach them – the Levinsons disappearing to speak to an acquaintance.

"Patrick, it's ridiculous!" His mother's hissing can be heard at a lull in general conversation. "This is meant to be Rosamund's ball, she needs to make a good match and all you're doing is making this event about Robert and that American girl." Robert feels his cheeks flame, an annoyance rising in him that he very rarely allows to take hold of him. His palm becomes immediately sticky as Miss Levinson's small hand drops from his elbow. His fingers flex into a fist and he takes a heavy step in his mother's direction.

"Don't." Despite her small size the forcefulness of her tone is reflected in the pull she makes on his jacket. "Not for me. It's not worth it."

"I will not have her saying – "

"I have heard worse. Getting angry will not change her opinion of me. We would be better keeping our heads high and showing her that she won't get a reaction." Her blue eyes hold a pleading tone and her hand still grips his jacket. His gaze drifts from her to where his parents are still hissing at each other. Miss Levinson was undoubtedly right; his father would hopefully sort it all out and it certainly wasn't worth causing a scene in front of all these people – that certainly wouldn't benefit Rosamund.

He had always been proud of his parents, his father especially, but in the last year things had changed. The father he had once thought so wonderful had spent his inheritance and the only way out of the mess he has created is for his only son to marry an heiress. Meanwhile, his mother, now that he has selected an heiress, finds herself (predictably) unable to be civilised, all because she is not the lady his mother would prefer. All in all, he has reached the end of his patience with the pair of them and he was ashamed to admit he was looking forward to forcing them both to behave whilst Miss Levinson and her family stayed at Downton. Regardless of how things might turn out between him and Miss Levinson, which he still thought could be either way (she is not a young lady about to be bullied into anything), he is not going to put up with the Levinsons stay being full of pointed stares and rude remarks.

"Cora!" Robert turns on the spot at the sound of his sister's voice. "There you both are. I thought you might like a drink." She pushes two glasses of champagne into their grasps – not giving them the option to deny the bubbling liquid. "I must say I like your dress very much Cora, the colour suits you."

"Thank you." Despite how affable Rosamund is making herself he can tell Miss Levinson is still unsure (even after socialising with her for a few weeks) whether to trust her or not. Robert cannot completely blame her, there is something about his sister at the moment that even he cannot make out. She always seems to be trying to hide her thoughts and feelings behind a bravado of chattering and smiles but looking properly at her now, for the first time in weeks, he sees the smile doesn't reach her eyes and that there seems to be a complete unwillingness to let anyone talk for longer than a minute without interrupting, as if her thoughts will wander to something else and she will forget to keep her façade in place. He should have realised before and looking at her trying so hard to make Miss Levinson feel welcome (even if it is only keep her mind off whatever had stopped the smile reaching her eyes) he decides that before the night is out he will speak to her and find out if there is anything he can do to help.

Rosamund eventually gives up her chatter with Miss Levinson, undoubtedly partly because Miss Levinson's attention is lapsing – fashion was not something she truly valued. Mr Wakely immediately takes his sister's vacant place beside Miss Levinson (that man must have been following them around). Robert finds himself sighing, Philip had always been a good friend, not one of his closest but a good friend and Robert would really rather they didn't fall out over Miss Levinson.

"It has been some time since I have properly spent time in your company Miss Levinson, and I fear my state of mind is worse off because of it." Robert watches with veiled anger, and some slight amusement (after all Miss Levinson liked biting gentlemen's heads off when they try to flirt so obviously). Predictably, she tilts her head to the side, holding her gaze steadily with Mr Wakely's – pretending to have been affected by his comment.

"I rather doubt that Mr Wakely. A young gentleman like yourself would not let your state be influenced to that degree by a young lady and if you had I would say you ought to open your eyes to the hundreds of amusements available in a city such as London, and make the most of them." Mr Wakely colours and Robert coughs against his hand before excusing himself – he had just spotted Rosamund standing alone at the edge of the ballroom looking downcast, maybe now is his moment.

"Roz." He presses his hand to her arm as he catches up with her, muttering a rude word as someone almost sends his drink flying – why had his mother invited so many people?

"I told her she had invited too many." Rosamund flicks her finger against the stem of the champagne glass, her tone hard and expressionless. "Don't know why you're here. You're supposed to be enjoying the attentions of the pretty American piece."

"I knew you were putting it on." He has the urge to stamp his foot but suppresses it.

"Putting what on?"

"Pretending to like Miss Levinson."

"I do like her, and my friendliness is sincere but your happy situation only makes me realise how lost I am and that makes me angry. Mama wants me to marry some grey-haired man with a great title and fields of rolling hills and this year I am going to go home again and she is going to eat me alive for not having made a match. Nobody seems to care about what I might want." Her voice cracks and she drops her chin to her chest, her gloved hand reaching up to her eyes as she sniffs. Robert reaches an arm around her shoulders and hugs her to his chest. He should have been paying her more attention, he should have seen this coming. There was only so many more years Rosamund was going to take of being hounded by their mother and it seems breaking point has been reached.

"Let's go outside a minute." Keeping his arm around her shoulders he manoeuvres them out into the hallway and into the Drawing room. It takes a fair amount of pushing but he manages to get them out without any mishap, even telling a footman to take a message to his parents – the dancing cannot commence without the belle of the ball – and one to Miss Levinson to assure her of his return for their first dance.

"Who is he then?"

"Who?"

"The gentleman you've met who you are clearly fond of." She had been daubing the handkerchief he had given her under her eyes but she stops as her eyes widen. "Don't look at me like that Roz. You're crying, you never cry, not even about Mama going on and on about you making a match. She has done that for years and yet this year you're in tears, so, your dear brother has surmised that something very serious must have happened."

"He's a banker called Marmaduke Painswick. I met him the other day when I was shopping. He asked for my help selecting a ribbon for his goddaughter's birthday. We spent an hour laughing at some of the fashions and then, because my friends had left, he walked me home. It was the most fun I've had in a long time…and you and Miss Levinson…I don't know, she looks at you like he looked at me. Don't let her go Robert, she might not be the best choice socially but don't let a girl that looks at you like that walk away." She starts crying again, the gentle sobbing that had accompanied most of her speech finally taking over.

"How about we make a deal." He rubs his hand up and down below her shoulder. "I will help you find this banker man and depending on how things go, I will take your side if the time comes, as long as you back me rather than mama when it comes to Miss Levinson."

"Robert, I don't think – "

"I will find him Roz. If it is what you want I will find him."

"But we are leaving for Downton next week and there isn't…" She starts shaking with her tears again and Robert finds himself rubbing her back.

"I will sort it, I promise. As long as you try and talk to Miss Levinson about something other than clothes, because she's not too fond of discussing fashion." Rosamund laughs and then takes his handkerchief to daub her eyes one last time before standing resolutely and plastering a large smile on her face.

"Come on then. We better get back; Miss Levinson will be awaiting your presence for that first dance." She drags him to his feet and they leave the room together laughing. He feels like the three-year-old boy being dragged along by his seven-year-old sister to hide from nanny in the alcove.

* * *

Cora watches the gentle circles her friend's fingers makes across her rounded stomach. Every so often her hand pauses and a reluctant smile lights up her face – the baby kicking from within the home she has created for it seemed to be the only light in her life.

Cora chews her lip, tracing her finger over the satin gown she had been folding into her suitcase. Leaving London for Downton had at first filled her with a great anticipation, to see Mr Crawley's home would be a great way of getting to understand him better and, of course, the thought of leaving Prince Christian behind (and with it her mother's expectations) had filled her with a satisfactory amount of pleasure. But she had to admit she would be unhappy to part with Isabella, particularly in her current condition when it was quite clear that her husband was not going to even come and see that she was still healthy and the pregnancy, and his child, was progressing as it should. Isabella had said she was staying in the city for the birth and it didn't sound like he would even be present for that.

Isabella had been a good friend to her and had worked tirelessly, despite her pregnancy to make sure that she had been introduced to all the right people as well as making events at the house inclusive of all three of them. Cora would never go as far as calling Isabella a confidante, not when they had spent so many months apart without any real contact, but she would call her a friend. Being in a foreign country surrounded by various men trying to woo her into whatever it is that pleases each of them meant that it had been nice to have someone standing beside her who had already experienced it all and her inside knowledge of some of the gentlemen in question really had saved Cora from a few mishaps.

"Cora, are you listening?" She spins on the spot, the satin gown slipping from between her fingers.

"No, sorry, I was miles away." Isabella laughs, more of a giggle, as she carefully rises from the chair and comes over to the bed where Cora is packing.

"You were daydreaming about Mr Crawley, weren't you?" Cora feels her cheeks flame, was she really that easy to read?

"Cora, there's no harm in it. Mr Crawley was what I wanted to discuss with you before you go to Yorkshire anyway. It is why I came in to watch you pack this morning." She lowers herself onto the bed slowly, her face contorting in a wince as her feet lift from the ground but her body isn't far enough onto the bed to completely support her.

"Oh? Do you think I shouldn't be going to Downton?"

"No, not at all. I have never been and by all accounts it's lovely. Besides, Mr Crawley is a fine gentleman, as fine as they come. What I am worried about is your heart."

"My heart?"

"Yes, because I believe you're halfway to being in love with him already and – "

"Isabella!" She holds up her hands and steps away from the bed, her cheeks colouring. She likes him, very much, but love. No, Isabella didn't understand, her relationship with her husband was so stilted she was getting her imaginary dreams muddled with reality. Isabella takes her hand and pulls her back towards the bed. She pulls her so hard she falls onto the bed next to Isabella and she cannot help but laugh.

"Just hear me out Cora. Please just remember when you're at Downton, don't say yes to _anything_ until you are absolutely sure of him. Oh, and for goodness sake do make sure you don't get blinded by his blue eyes and dashing curls." Cora finds herself looking down, the image of Mr Crawley's face invading her thoughts just like it had that first night after they had met in Paris. "I'm not saying he's not a very nice man but marriage is a long business and a few extra months making sure he is the right choice is better than a lifetime of misery." Cora notes the seriousness of her tone, this wasn't a woman just saying what she thought ought to be said but someone speaking to her based on her own experience. "Whatever your mother, or even his mother, might say, this has to be your decision and only yours."

"Isabella, I…really – "

"No, I don't want you to explain yourself, just _remember_ what I have said. And, if you need advice, I'm only a letter away." She shifts on the bed, edging to the side as she tries to struggle off the side. With her size, Cora was seriously wondering if she was expecting twins. At seven months, she looks like she is about to give birth. Cora sits up quickly and assists her getting off the bed. Isabella looks at her with a rather deep, pained expression – as if she is thinking really deeply – before she suddenly pulls her into a hug. Cora suppresses a small squeal of surprise into her friend's shoulder, trying to stay as upright as possible so not to make her friend lose her balance.

When they separate Cora thinks she sees a spark of sadness in her friend's eyes, as if maybe her going to the country wasn't as jolly as she had been making out. She squeezes Cora's knuckles before heading for the door where she suddenly turns and steps back into the room, her gaze to the floor looking rather worried about whatever it is he is about to say.

"Cora, can I ask a huge favour? Will you come to London in September, for the birth?"

"Of course, of course, if that is what you want." Isabella takes her hand and smiles through a pair of watery eyes, the impending birth was definitely worrying her, or at the very least her pregnancy was making her as emotional as Cora had heard it can. "You never know I might be on a trip to London then anyway, to buy wedding clothes!" Isabella laughs, gives her one last hug and vanishes out the door leaving Cora in a room surrounded by her clothes.

She moves in the direction of her beside drawer, retrieving from it the book containing the letter Mr Crawley had left for in the bookshop in Paris. As she does every time she takes the book from its place, she opens the notebook to the appropriate, well-thumbed page and traces her finger over the lettering, admiring the spiky loops that dictate his hard hand. Although his writing is decidedly masculine there was something in it that indicated his soft nature – the small gaps between the words and how neatly he joins up small letters to larger ones.

She is pleased she is going to Downton, and although there were still some nerves about the journey that plague at her thoughts she hopes it will be a success. That Mr Crawley's intention is to propose to her she doesn't doubt, he had made that clear, but she does value his attention to her thoughts and feelings by holding an announcement off and giving her a chance to learn more about the world she might be choosing. Her largest concern was about the proximity of both their mother's, it had been hard enough during the season (when they didn't necessarily attend the same events) keeping the peace when they did meet, so for them to be sharing a house – for her mother to be a guest of Lady Grantham's terrified her – she wasn't the easiest guest when she _liked_ her hostess. Then there were Cora's nerves about simply being in a proximity to Mr Crawley's mother all the time. Every dinner, drink, comment and facial expression was going to be witnessed by her and Cora know that all that scrutiny will ultimately find her wanting and that however hard she tries his mother is not going to give up in trying to separate them and find some English girl for him to marry. In Rosamund, Cora was still not sure what to think or expect, while Mr Crawley had assured her she was not working for his mother and would not judge her Cora had not managed to really form an opinion about the red-haired beauty – all she ever seemed to talk about was clothes – and for Cora that was a subject that always suggested a lack of character.

She ambles back over to her case, finding one of her evening purses and tucking the notebook into the purse. She adjusts the position of some of her gowns so that she can bury it deep in her case.

A ripple of sound from the door makes her jump, her body producing a strange strangled hiccup as she retracts her hand from the case where she had been disguising the book that has the power to ruin her, but somehow meant more to her than any of her other possessions.

"May I come in?" Her father's voice echoes from the other side of the door. It is strange for him to visit her in her bedroom so she immediately finds that her heart is hammering and her breathing has become rather heavy. What on earth does he want to discuss with her?

"Of course." She puts the lid down on the case as her father opens the door.

"Why don't we sit down?" He gestures to the two cream armchairs that took up a great deal of space in front of one of the windows. None of the bedrooms in the house were particularly large, Isabella had told her that town houses were for entertaining so bedroom space was limited and that she would much prefer the size of the room she might have at Downton.

Her father lowers himself into the seat at an agonisingly slow rate, and Cora thinks she sees a slight wince at one point, before he finally reaches the cushion of the seat and he seems to let out a breath he had been holding. She says nothing, it doesn't surprise her that London is tiring him out. His parents had always reminded her of the Bennets, and maybe that was why she loved that book so much. Mrs Bennet was undoubtedly her mother, frivolous and interested only in her daughter's marriage prospects and fashion, while Mr Bennet worked hard to balance his estate and liked to read in the quiet of his library – society never failing to tire him.

"I hope you're excited about this trip to Mr Crawley's home, your mother seems to think it means he has chosen you as his future companion which seems to fill her with joy but rather panics your poor old father."

"Things aren't quite that settled yet. Not even close."

"Why does that do nothing to reassure me?" His eyes lift to hers, and he leans slightly further forward on the chair, reaching over to take her hand. He rubs his fingers over her knuckles, seemingly taking in every tiny part of her small hand – committing it to memory. "The thing is Cora, I know that you have always anticipated your mother's views on all of this, but that my sudden enthusiasm for this trip to England surprised you, and because I feel like I'm very close to losing you to this foreign land and charming lord, I want to take the opportunity to remind you how much I love you." Cora feels herself blushing softly at the openness of her father's sentiment. She stands from her chair and moves to rest gently on his knee, like she had as a child, embracing him and kissing his forehead.

"You haven't lost me yet Pa. Lord Downton hasn't even proposed and his mother really doesn't like me, so he might not. Besides, you can never really lose me, you're my father and I love you so much, you know I do."

"It is not losing you to Mr Crawley that really bothers me. I think he is very nice, and if I have to give you up I would give you up to him but I worry about losing you in a more permanent way."

"How do you mean Pa? Lady Grantham might be rather a dragon but I will not let her bully me out of seeing you and Ma, there will be visits and I am sure Mr Crawley might even let us travel to America." Her father doesn't seem to say anything, just hugs her tighter. He leans back in the chair, pulling her further into his lap. It doesn't altogether surprise her, she had always been close with her father and of course she had thought about what it will be like to have him waving her goodbye and heading home while she is staying in England so it was not surprising that her father has had a wave of nerves about the reality of the situation.

"You will always be my little girl, no matter what happens, and please don't forget that."

"Of course, I won't. Mr Crawley can never be a father to me Pa. That is your job and it always will be."

"It has never been a _job_ , Cora. You have always been a complete bundle of joy and the least trying part of my entire existence. I am prouder of you than any other single thing in my life." Cora knows her cheeks darken into a soft blush, it was strange for the father to be so forward in his affection. Since she had become a young woman rather than the little girl she had been, her father had restricted his open plays of affection, so this had rather taken her by surprise.

"If I do end up staying in England I will miss you too Pa, but it won't be the end, there will be grandchildren for you to play with and spoil. I can see you now giving them lots of gifts and smuggling them sweeties." Cora laughs, lost in her own thoughts, hardly noticing that her father isn't even smiling, in fact, a look of pain has caused his face to scrunch into a forehead of crinkles, his eyes squeezed shut to keep the tears from his daughter.

"Um, I am sure there will be Cora, but it's not just grandfather's that spoil little children, their mothers can too, and I am sure you will. But," he stretches beneath Cora's body, and she sits up, "I hope that is all a little way off, we haven't even got to Yorkshire yet!" He laughs a throaty chuckle, as Cora lifts herself from his lap and sits back in her seat.

"Is there anything else you might want to discuss Pa, or were you just getting really emotional?" She teases him lightly, they had always teased each other (or at least they had until he had sided with her mother over this whole England trip).

"That was all really. I just wanted to make sure you and I hadn't lost our way after I sided with your mother over this whole trip. I just wanted you to have the experience to travel before you get tied down to marriage and children with whomever that might be and I want to enjoy these last few months of freedom with you before it's too late. And I just wanted to remind you that I love you, that was all." He stands resolutely and Cora finds something very final in his movements as he leans over and plants a kiss on her forehead. It reminds her of how he used to kiss her before she went to bed as a little girl and therefore it is a symbol of the day coming to an end, but today, because he hasn't done it in so long it feels as though this is the end of something much larger – the end of their life together.

"I love you too Daddy, I always will."


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: All the lovely reviews have got me writing again - albeit slowly! I hope you like this update. Please keep the reviews coming. Cobert love to you all, stay safe.**

* * *

 **Chapter 13**

She is stirred from her slumber by her mother's gentle shaking of her arm. Her eyes falter, a sleepy stickiness trying to make them stay closed. The carriage has slowed and glancing to her left she sees that hard roads and people flurrying about has been replaced by rolling hills that seem to be climbing dramatically to a point some way in the distance. She leans further forward, desperate for a glimpse of the house that she might one day call home but she cannot see it. Some of the fields are crowded with sheep, their faces not even turning to the noise of the carriage, others are empty, the violently green grass already trimmed to a perfect height by the grazing animals some weeks before.

There is not a person to be seen and Cora has to wonder at whether the village Mr Crawley had talked so fondly of was anything more than a church and a few terrace cottages. Everything around her seems to be endless rolling fields which are occasionally broken by large trees that swing softly in the breeze, leaning towards the carriage from where they are perched on the steep banks either side of the road, as if they are nodding with pleasure at her arrival.

The road curves about for another five minutes, the views out the window on the other side of the carriage getting more and more spectacular as they climb. She begins to feel a little like Elizabeth Bennet must have felt on first travelling to Pemberley – was the house ever going to appear?

Turning her attention away from the landscape and the views, and looking back out the window by her shoulder she sees a flutter of something red and dark blue between a gap in the hills up ahead. It disappears almost immediately and the carriage takes a turn to the right, away from the flicker of colour that must have been something other than green fields. A minute later the carriage turns sharply left and the flickering red and blue she had thought she had seen reappears. A flag, and beneath it is the turret of a large, gothic looking tower. The carriage turns again, the road seemingly perfectly designed to tempt visitors into believing they have almost arrived only to pull them away from the alluring towers and make them look at the fields again.

Mr Crawley had never described the house to her, telling her it was impossible to describe, and that she would have to see it before she understood what he meant. As the carriage makes a final turn to the left she knows what he means.

This is the high point that all the hills have been curving towards. On it sits Downton Abbey.

Cora feels her mouth widen in astonishment, the word 'castle' would be a far better fit for the towering turrets and the gothic decoration. The delicate, church like decoration is what makes it clear this castle is not one built by soldiers to defend land but rather for a showman to solidify his wealth and position; for a great family to prove that they have power and influence given to them by the monarch, and thus by god. The hundreds of windows only help to further cement this building as a house, for chosen people to live in – no castle would have windows.

As the carriage races closer to the front doors, the sun is blocked out by the magnitude of the building and Cora is able to turn her attention to what is about to happen. Stood by the door are Mr Crawley, his sister and his parents. To their left are a long line of people that at first cause her brow to crumple – he had never mentioned such a large family. Then she sees the rigidity of their postures, the matching uniforms and she feels her throat squeeze tightly as she tries to swallow – there are more servants than family – more people spying and gossiping than there are people to serve. Far more people to disapprove of her.

She takes her nose away from the window, it is not proper to stare and she really must get this visit off to the best start she can. Lady Grantham has made it quite clear she thinks her unsuitable for the role of being Viscountess and she is determined not to prove her right. She checks her appearance quickly in the mirror that is sewn into the inside of her little bag – she might not be a real 'lady' but she can at least try and look like one, after all the servants were bound to fill their quarters with talk of what the 'American girl was wearing.'

The carriage door is opened by a footman, a very tall, proper looking footman, with a large mop of dark hair that is combed very neatly to one side. His face is expressionless, his chin tilted slightly into the air the entire time, no doubt he was one of those that thought the family he served were gods themselves. She wonders what such a servant might think of her, an outsider – not even British - ready to throw herself at the feet of such a family and ruin their reputation by lessening their family name.

Before she can think further about the footman and his thoughts on a match that might not even take place, Mr Crawley has stepped forwards and taking her hand helps her down the steps of the carriage. In the months that had followed him first taking her hand in Paris, and the sensations it had caused to ripple through her, she had learnt to control the amount of emotion that she shows on her face – it was not proper for her feelings to be so clearly displayed.

"Welcome to Downton, Miss Levinson. I hope your journey was pleasant?"

"Yes, thank you." She steps out the way of the steps as her mother starts rustling behind her. Lady Grantham steps forward to greet her mother, as would be the proper way of doing things and Cora feels her neck prickle at the realisation she and not technically greeted her host – that was not a good way to start her stay. She cranes her neck a little upwards to admire the stonework that curves above the doorway, the lions on one side, dog on the other, each with a pole held between their paws. The coat of arms in the middle a reminder that this house is one of a great family, the lion links them to the king and the dog guards their door, an ever-faithful companion.

"You like the house?" His words are almost a whisper by her ear but they distract her from the elegant stonework.

"I think there are very few that would not." He raises his eyebrow before laughing softly.

"And here I was thinking we had left all references to Miss Bennet in Paris. I think the appropriate answer to your remark is that 'your good opinion is rarely bestowed and thus more worth the earning.'" She laughs, her head dipping to avoid the seemingly hundreds of pairs of eyes that are turned in her direction. "In all seriousness, I want you to like it, I want you to like it very much, as your home, hopefully." She blushes a little at his suggestion, she cannot help it, even if she knows that is his intention.

"Miss Levinson, do you have a maid with you?" Lord Grantham steps forward, even going so far as to greet her with a kiss to her gloved hand.

"Oh, yes, I do, so does Mama, and Pa has his valet." Cora turns to find them already alighting from the second carriage.

"We ought to introduce them to the staff, and it would be good for you to know whom is best to turn to while you are staying here." Cora turns to Emma, giving her a brief nod, she steps forward as she follows Lord Grantham towards the most mature looking of his staff. "This is Peters, the butler." The very frail looking gentleman appears to try and nod, but Cora can tell that even that seems a great deal of effort. "He won't mind me telling you that most of his duties are carried out by our first footman Charles, whom incidentally will also be Lord Downton's valet for the next few weeks since Mr Patterson left us in London." Cora sees the image of the footman's stoic face from a moment ago, that must have been this Charles fellow, clearly very full of his nearing promotion to the realms of butler. "And this, is our housekeeper, Mrs Johnson, should you or your maid have any questions about your bedchamber or anything else about the house Mrs Johnson is the lady you need."

"It is very nice to meet you Miss Levinson, I hope your stay at Downton is enjoyable for you."

"Thank you, Mrs Johnson, likewise it is nice to meet you." Before she has a chance to introduce Emma and her mother's maid, Lady Grantham's exasperated tone cuts through the gathering.

"Patrick! Do stop wasting Miss Levinson's time introducing her to the servants, the tea in the library will be getting cold." Lord Grantham's face briefly contorts, as if he is embarrassed, Cora merely nods goodbye to Emma, who already has a glint of mischief in her eye that is aimed in the direction of the proud footman, which does not help to ease Cora's nerves.

Lord Grantham is quiet as they walk inside, no doubt still containing his displeasure at his wife, but it pleases Cora. It gives her a chance to watch her father so easily conversing with Mr Crawley, and more importantly study the interior of the magnificent Abbey.

The pillars that line the small entrance hall, that she can see ahead opens up into a larger space are overwhelming in the small space, it is safe to say the architect had thought nothing of the comfort of the house, but only its grandeur. They are less delicate than the intricate steeples that had been mounted on top of the towers, there was nothing delicate about the stature of theses ones. Before she is allowed the satisfaction of seeing the room that the entrance hall opens up to they take a turn to the left and enter a small room of which the most deciding feature – and the one she walks between to enter the room she can now tell is the library – are once again the pillars. This time there has been some effort made to allow them to blend with the décor; they are painted gold and black and mounted on plinths. There are two on each side, with the gap that she walks through gives a perfect view of the bookcase on the opposite wall which arches towards the ceiling like a Greek temple. The red settees and curtains compliment the golden tone of the pillars and bookcases, creating a room that Cora felt held more warmth than any other she had been in.

"You like the room Miss Levinson?" Lord Grantham's voice startles her back to reality and she drops her gaze from where it was absorbing the depths of the ceiling, threatening to turn her neck into a most unladylike position.

"Yes." She feels her tongue dart across her lips to moisten the skin that must have become dry as her mouth had slowly cracked open due to the decoration before her.

"Some tea?" He gestures over towards where the others are gathered, Lady Grantham is already offering tea from the tray – dismissing the tall calculating footman who Cora really does not like – and her own mother is already sipping it reluctantly (Isabella had always served them coffee in London).

"Thank you." She lets him lead her forward, a strange hope that the Grantham's earlier disagreement might stay Lady Grantham's harsh remarks. It seems to, and Cora takes the warm cup and saucer with more smiles than are offered to her. Her parents have settled themselves on one settee with Lady Rosamund sits beside them on one of the chairs, already amicably chattering to them about something Cora cannot make out. She hesitates, is she supposed to sit beside her parents and leave the Crawleys on the other settee? Or should she be sitting on the other settee?

"Sit on the chair, and I will sit here on the settee beside you." She had missed him moving away from the tea table towards her, she had been too engrossed in taking hold of her cup and not dropping it to even think about what he was doing in relation to her, which was itself a new sensation. He takes her cup and places it on the little table while she lowers herself into the chair, adjusting her bustle as she does so. "I never had a chance to ask you how your journey was?"

"Long." She laughs softly. "But the scenery in a lot of places was really lovely, so I enjoyed that and we stopped in a little village and had a meal in a public house." She watches his eyes widen a little and cannot help but smile. "I know that is a little beneath us perhaps, but father and I like to properly immerse the culture of places we visit and public houses are part of that. Besides the food was quite suitable and the people perfectly friendly and willing to serve us."

"I am sure they were." She thinks she senses the smallest amount of sarcasm in his voice but her mind is too busy trying to think up another potential topic of conversation for it to rest on the intricacies of his voice – however much she might want to. "Perhaps, Miss Levinson, if you will allow me, I might take you upstairs and show you your room?" He is already shifting in his seat, lowering his saucer to the table where it clinks softly. She lowers her eyes a little into her lap, it would certainly not be sensible for her to accept the offer of accompanying him _alone_ upstairs so readily, her mother would raise her eyebrows and his mother would just have another reason to think her unsuitable for her son. Those reasons do not change the fact that she would greatly love for him to walk her up the stairs of _his_ home and tell her about the paintings on the walls and the guests that have slept in her bedroom before her.

"I would like that very much Mr Crawley but I feel given the circumstances perhaps you could also show my parents to their rooms?" He seems to catch her meaning and smiles that devastating smile that had captured her so easily before.

"Rosamund?" He turns to his sister, who Cora notes is startled from her thoughts by his interruption. "You will come with Miss Levinson and I to see her room is in order for her stay." Rosamund stands immediately, announcing her pleasure with a wide smile.

"Robert and I are going to show Miss Levinson her bedchamber Mama. We shall be back shortly." Before Lady Grantham has a chance to say a word, Rosamund takes Cora by the arm and half lifts her from her seat, propelling them both across the room to the door. The look of shock that Cora knows must be masked on her face is simply laughed away by her captor. "And that, Miss Levinson, is how you deal with Mama." Mr Crawley exits the library just behind them, he shakes his head at his sister but Cora can plainly see the pleasure that dances in his eyes – why had she never got on this well with Harold? Before she can reply to Rosamund's comment, her arm is dropped by her companion and she races up the stairs like a little girl – rather than the lady her mother has spent all her life nurturing – leaving her stood quite alone with Mr Crawley. She laughs nervously to herself.

"It seems I find myself in the very situation I thought we were trying to avoid Mr Crawley." He smiles widely, his eyebrows lifting into the air in a quick twitch that she would have missed if she had blinked.

"That is where you are wrong Miss Levinson. We were trying to avoid out parents knowing that we were venturing upstairs unchaperoned." His eyes appraise her quickly as he takes a breath, staying fixed on her eyes as he steps just a little closer to her. As he exhales she can feel his warm breath on her forehead and her spine involuntarily quivers, letting a shiver of something unexplainably pleasant come to rest in the base of her stomach. "I might not have known you very long, but I was instinctively aware of the fact you liked the thought of me showing me your bedchamber." She blushes, had her thoughts really been so plain on her face?

"Well, I suppose we better get to it then." She looks away from him, an unsettling feeling settling in her stomach. She begins to wonder if she had been wrong about Mr Crawley, perhaps he was more of a rogue than even Isabella's ghastly husband, just better at hiding it.

"I have confused you, or upset you, haven't I?" Her palate goes suddenly dry. She would shake her head, she doesn't want to upset him, but she cannot even seem to find the energy to do that while her head is swirling with thoughts. Maybe this was his tactic, luring her to an unfamiliar place so he can take advantage of her. "I think perhaps I have made a grave misjudgement of your motivations Miss Levinson, would you like my sister to return?"

"No." She finds her voice from somewhere, it certainly had not been her brain which is still telling her to be weary of his advances. "I suddenly panicked that is all. I trust you explicitly but then my mind was overtaken with other people, and other stories, and I panicked." He steps forward towards where she is now standing at the foot of the staircase. He takes her hand gently from where it had been resting by her side.

The instant feeling is the same as the one a few moments ago when he had breathed on her. A ripple of energy surges towards her spine where it ripples and tingles its way to the base. The feeling then seems to jump straight into her stomach and abdomen, bringing with it a complete feeling of contentment. His thumb circles over her knuckles, only causing the addictive sensation to repeat itself over and over again.

"Miss Levinson, look at me." His voice is not commanding, or harsh, but it is clear that whatever it is he is going to say he will not say when her eyes are fixed on his feet. "I will never, ever, take advantage of you, or treat you in a way that is disrespectful or demeaning." He brushes his thumb once more over her knuckles, a final gesture which immediately calms her nerves. He drops her hands and gestures for her to precede him up the stairs, which she readily does.

* * *

He is surprised to see that her face is not alight with her brilliant smile as she descends the staircase and briefly catches his gaze. When he had shown her to her room just an hour ago her face had lit up with satisfaction at the Mercia bedroom. The blue walls were exactly to her liking and the view out the window onto the untamed, wild grass had made her grin more broadly than he had ever seen. It had become clear to him in that moment that Miss Levinson seemed very much more at home in the country than in the city and that had made him more eager than ever to show her the extent of the grounds at Downton – a task he was now stood very much in anticipation of as a footman helped her into her coat.

Just the shrug of her shoulders as she adjusts the fit of the coat tells him she is battling some kind of inner turmoil. He wonders is she is panicking about his intentions towards her, as she had been just a couple of hours ago. If her body language had not been enough of a giveaway, she keeps her eyes trained firmly on a spot just to the left of him, or the floor as the footman leaves them and they step out onto the gravel. Their feet crunch between them, filling the tangible silence that sits between them, but it does not help Robert to think of anything to say. It is clear she is upset and that her mind is miles from where her body is. He knows he should find something to say, but whether that something should distract her from her thoughts or should tempt her into discussing them with him, he doesn't know.

He walks them around the side of the house, to where the library opens up onto the lawn. Their feet still crackle on the gravel and his hands still twitch behind his back, his palms growing sweaty as he mulls over his options. Why on earth was all this courting and marriage business so difficult? Why was it women were so complicated? One moment she was flirting and dancing with him, the next she was worried about his motives, and just when he thought he had placated her mind on that score she seemed to be all mopey again.

It was unlike her to be so obviously preoccupied with whatever she is thinking about, which makes him reluctant to interrupt whatever thoughts she might be having, but the longer the silence reigns on, the more his hands twist together in anxiety and a desperation to know if he has done something to upset her. After all, since abandoning his relationship (if you could call it that) with Evelyn it is absolutely paramount to not let Miss Levinson slip through the hook, his father and his family would never forgive him. The fact he was using Miss Levinson and her family to save his own still wounded him deeply. When he had stood in the saloon earlier and told her he would never do anything to demean her, he had meant it, but no sooner had he said it than he had realised that in bringing her to Downton and, hopefully, making her his wife, he was demeaning her because his choice was not entirely selfless. Worse than that, he had brought her here without telling her the financial situation he found himself in, he had concealed the truth and that was eating away at him because it was not his way of doing things, or the life he led, outside of this one exception.

He turns towards her, watching the nail on her ring finger attack the skin on the side of her thumb nail through her lace gloves. Turning his gaze to her face he finds her teeth are chewing at her bottom lip, as if practicing the words she isn't sure she can say – whatever they may be. She looks up for half a second, catching his gaze, but then immediately drops it, one hand reaching up behind her hand to scratch at the hair coming loose beneath. As of that scratch causes her thoughts to suddenly find a common purpose, her head snaps back around, her chin raised and her eyes meeting his in a very unsettling stare. He cannot quite pinpoint what it is about her eyes that scares him in that split second before she speaks. They seem stony, where usually they look as though the irises might melt into a river of beautiful blue, and the pupils are very constricted as if she is trying to not see him despite the fact she is looking at him.

"How important is my dowry to you?" Her tone is clipped, but the harshness she manages to get across with every syllable of the sentence is hard enough for him to know that lying is not going to make this situation better. He had been telling himself to tell her for weeks, and now it seemed someone had beaten him to it.

"I think perhaps I should start at the beginning – "

"And I would argue it's a bit late for that! Does everyone know that is what this is about, all those people in London. All the lords and ladies were quietly laughing at me as I waltzed with you, knowing full well all you want is my money. You said earlier you would never demean me, you already have!" He is pleased they cannot be seen from the house, having dropped down the slope into the rose garden. He had never seen any woman of his station act so aggressively. Miss Levinson's hands flay in the air and her faces turns into a deathly scowl – not behaviour his mother would appreciate. It would be easy to get angry with her now, to tell her that it wasn't his choice, it wasn't his fault – that this was the family pressure he had talked his way around in Paris. But he cannot get angry, he has to explain to her rationally that money was not the only factor here, after all, if it had been he would be married to Evelyn by now.

"When I met you in Paris, my friendship and interest were genuine, I swear, and they still are. But you must remember we mentioned family pressures, this is mine. Downton, the town house, and all that my father owns, or rather has inherited will be lost unless the estate sees a large investment. Essentially my father is broke – "

"I think I get it; your inheritance goes down the drain unless you marry for money and I am the unsuspecting girl who fell right into your trap." She nods her head bitterly. He feels anger build inside him as she looks at him so bitterly. Was there really any point in explaining if she is too headstrong to listen?

"Miss Levinson, please let me finish. Do you remember Lady Evelyn? The lady I spent a large amount of time with at the beginning of the season?"

"I do. Obviously, she made a better decision than me, walking away from your money grabbing hands."

"I sent her away. She spread stories about us that weren't true and truth be told she would never have made me happy." She visibly starts at that, but her gaze does not lose the sharpness that makes it so terrifying. "If I had a choice, Miss Levinson, I would marry for love and happiness only, but I have no choice. My whole family will lose everything unless I make a match that brings enough money into this household. It is not just us though, there are tenants that have worked Crawley land for generations, I will not let them lose their places here. It seemed a small price to pay, choosing a wife from within a certain group of women, to keep so many other people happy and in their homes."

He pauses, hoping against hope that she might say something, but her arms are now crossed against her chest, and she looks down – he can't even see her face. He turns on the spot, shoving his hands in his pockets. He chews his lip and looks out across the rose garden, studying the neatly manicured arches that are made from the hedge. She remains in silence.

"The thing is Miss Levinson, if you hadn't been in London this year I would currently be attending my wedding to Lady Evelyn Wheeler. When I saw you in Paris I was convinced I was going to marry her, you might remember my mentioning her?" She remains, despondent, so he ploughs on regardless, what was there to lose now? "But something changed this season, and it wasn't just that I saw a different side to Evelyn that I didn't like so much, it was that I had changed. _You_ had changed me. She confessed her love to me Miss Levinson, and I turned her away because _you_ had changed me, because there was something about you that despite my mother's immediate hatred towards you, and my father's raised eyebrows, intrigued me, left me wanting to find out more. And I can tell you now, that if you didn't possess the dowry you do, I would have married Evelyn weeks ago, just to try and stop thinking about you." He takes a breath for air, and then bites his lip, dragging his hand through his now wet hair – when had it started raining? And why on earth had he just disclosed so much personal information to Miss Levinson? Information he didn't fully understand the answers to himself.

If he had thought she was going to answer him now, he is sorely mistaken. Her crossed arms tighten more closely around her chest, and although her shoe twists about on the gravel she doesn't look up. He waits another few seconds and then stands up and walks away. Maybe she just needs some time to think things over, to decide if she does in fact want to stay and see if, whatever this was they are doing, might work out.

The grass sludges beneath his feet as he tramps back towards the house, the gravel is too noisy when it thumps along with his pounding head. Nearing the house, he takes a glance over his shoulder hoping that she might be following him, she isn't. He scuffs his shoes through the grass, one hand stretching through his hair again. What has he done? Miss Levinson has not even been in the house a day and he has already managed to drive her away, what on earth would his father say when the Levinsons started packing their bags later? His chance of survival walking away all because he had been stupid enough to tell Miss Levinson everything. Absolutely everything. Including things he didn't understand himself.

His hair starts sticking to his forehead as he traipses around the servants' side of the house, slipping around their courtyard, he smiles momentarily as a scullery maid, who is running along with a pan of something, drops into an awkward kind of curtsey. But the moment doesn't last, before he knows it he is back on the south side of the house, right beneath the Mercia bedroom that was supposed to be Miss Levinson's for her stay, whether she will in fact be staying in it at all, and isn't already packing her case as he walks, he doesn't know.

He almost walks into her she is stood so silently by the corner of the house. The only thing that alerts him to her presence is that the hem of her dress happens to enter his line of vision (he is looking down) just before he would have otherwise crashed straight into her.

"You should have told me." Her accusation is still as sharp as it had been earlier, but when he looks up to meet her gaze he sees the softness behind her eyes that he had come to expect to find there.

"I should have, but I never felt like any moment was right. I apologise." She nods solemnly. Robert just stares at her, what else is he supposed to say? He doesn't know anymore.

"I am not saying it would have changed my decision to come here, because I do not think it would have. But, I would have appreciated all the facts so at least I would not feel as though I have been laughed out by half of the people you expect me to mix with if we do marry _and_ your own servants."

"Servants?" He cannot hide the shock that covers his face, his father had been so careful to keep discussion of their woes away from the servants – it had been one of his primary aims.

"How else do you think I found out? They told Emma the minute she arrived, or rather she overheard them all laughing about the 'American girl set to save the dashing Viscount from his disastrous inheritance'. She thought I ought to be informed so I could question the honour of your intentions." He gulps, letting the words she had spoken settle in his stomach, to sink in. The courses of action open to him now seemed limited – talk was obviously in the servants' hall, and probably the village – and Miss Levinson's nationality will precede her, her monetary advantages as a match more obvious than her beauty. The villagers will be laughing back to their houses at the luck of the family, about to fall and then a beautiful young lady with money walks into their lives. They will no doubt see it as a great betrayal of god and fairness, rather than an opportunity for them to keep their homes and livelihoods. Whether he tells his father that his shame is spreading is the only question really left to be discussed – the village is likely already alight with talk, there is no stopping it – but his father's dignity he might just be able to maintain if he plays his cards right.

"Miss Levinson, I must know, for the steps my family need to take into the future, if you are willing to stay here and allow a courtship to take place? I would give you time, real time to decide, but it seems I am running out."

"I will stay, and I understand your predicament, but before I can decide on anything final I must ask for _some_ time. I would be giving up a lot to spend the rest of my life with you and that is not a decision I can take lightly."

"Of course not. I would not want you to. Now, I think we best be getting inside before we both catch a chill." His words present that image of nobility, of decorum, but beneath it his heart is racing, and his brain is still spinning. Will she be able to forgive the fact he withheld the truth from her? Will the courtship get them anywhere, and if it does, how much time will he have lost in the process? He was rather like a swan – perfectly calm on the outside, but beneath all that he is thinking about far too many things – just as a swan looks regal and elegant, yet beneath its feet work tremendously hard just to keep it afloat.


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: I am truly humbled by the lovely reviews I am receiving as I continue to write this story. Thank you all so much, and please keep them coming.**

* * *

 **Chapter 14**

Robert taps his whip against his shoe, the 'clack' it makes as it comes into contact with the leather is enough of a distraction from the nerves that are prickling along his neck. Rosamund had promised that she would get Miss Levinson to the stables without anybody else accompanying them, and he does not doubt that she will – he had been able to track down Mr Painswick after all.

His horse stamps its feet impatiently beside him, which only heightens Robert's anxiety that they might not appear. It had been made clear to him the day before, by Miss Levinson, that now they are separated from London and the comings and goings of the season, he really did have to make a proper impression and squash the nerves he knows must be flickering within her after the revelation about him needing her money.

The sound of a laugh makes him turn his attention to the back of the stables, the opposite direction to which he had been expecting his company to arrive, and he sees the two ladies advancing towards him. Rosamund is dressed in a simple day dress, and is clearly not going to be joining them on the ride Robert has planned. Which he isn't disappointed about, but nor, does he realise, is he completely happy – a third person to contribute to the conversation was sometimes nice, and with his lack of creativity when it came to talking, particularly to women, a much-needed break from panicking about what he might say next was always appreciated.

Miss Levinson looks completely delightful in a navy habit that is clearly brand new. That her mother had made her have a new habit made before her arrival in London was not surprising to him, even if Miss Levinson had been innocent to the fortune hunting ways of the English upper classes, her mother certainly had not been – every ounce of Miss Levinson's clothing has screamed money since the moment he had first seen her at the Duchess's ball before the beginning of the real season. The last time Robert would say that he had seen Miss Levinson dressed in something that showed a real attention to her personality was when they were in Paris – before her mother had truly started forcing her to make a good impression.

A chocolate curl escapes from beneath her hat as the women draw level with him, at which point Lynch, the groom, steps forward from the stables towards them. Rosamund excuses herself immediately – although not before subtly raising her eyebrows at him and tilting her head at him, a reminder of the time he has been given, and what he owes her in return.

"Miss Levinson, this is Lynch, the head groom here at Downton, and he has something to show you." She looks after Rosamund's retreating back nervously and he wonders if she is worried about being alone in his company since the revelations yesterday about his desperate need for her dowry – does she still think he might try something unseemly?

"Very nice to meet you Mr Lynch." The groom simply nods his head in reply, he might not be the butler, but he knows well enough where his loyalties lie and how he should behave.

She falls into step behind Lynch, and Robert walks beside her, determined to see her face when he reveals the beauty he has chosen for her. A nearby estate had recently been selling off some of its horses, and he had caught sight of the palfrey and known immediately that the horse would be suitable for his future wife.

It is with a great deal of disappointment then, that when Miss Levinson's eyes meet the fleshy nose of the grey individual – Mr Lynch's expression as wide as his own as he proclaims it hers – she barely smiles. Her hand doesn't reach forward to muzzle the creature's nose, instead they rest unanimated by her side. Her expression remains controlled and unemotional, and she certainly does not turn from muzzling the horse to give him a wide grin and a big thank you – she doesn't so much as look at him.

"Mr Lynch, would you mind leaving Lord Downton and I alone for a minute?" She still doesn't look at him. The groom turns to him before following the instruction. If he had hoped whatever it was she was going to say would be said immediately he is left disappointed. She still stands rigidly still, aside from the way her middle finger scratches at the inside of her thumb. If her glove wasn't in place she would be tearing the skin away she is pressing so hard.

"Miss Levinson if – "

"Please don't say anything. You have done nothing wrong, don't start apologising. You do that a lot you know, apologise, panic, I don't know, and often there is really no need." The words pass from between her lips without space for a breath. She still doesn't look up, her eyes fixed on the place where Lynch had passed the horse's bridle into his hand. "But this…you should not have done this. Not for me." He doesn't dare correct her, and tell her that a few weeks ago, when he had purchased the palfrey he had been close to proposing to a completely different woman.

"I think you underestimate – "

"I told you not to say anything. I need to get this out, and I cannot have you distracting me with pretty compliments. I think perhaps you have forgotten a conversation we had, in the presence of Lady Evelyn and Mr Wakely at the races. At the time you could well have been distracted, I believe it was soon after that when yourself and Lady – " But he isn't listening, his head spins, and his hand tightens on the reins he holds, he can recall how he had been cornered in the refreshment marquee soon after by Evelyn – the very scene that appeared in her fake engagement announcement the following day. Trying to push his thoughts back to what happened before that is a little harder. He does remember being stood with Mr Wakely and him having a strange sense of jealously at having that man present despite their decade long friendship. Then there had been Evelyn, she had been on edge with Miss Levinson, asking lots of questions or rather making negative remarks about her nationality and there had been one remark which she had made which had sparked Miss Levinson, Robert remembers the way her blue eyes had flashed _._

 _I cannot ride, in fact, I have never sat on a horse before._

Robert's jaw drops, his hand reflexively loosens on the reins as his mind becomes completely consumed with that phrase, those words that she had spoken so many months before – how on earth had he forgotten something so significant? The answer to that question, he knows almost immediately. It was not, as Miss Levinson had suggested, that he had been lost in his thoughts of Lady Evelyn at that moment, or the many days afterwards that had involved his fallout had wiped the words from his memory. No, it was because in that moment the words Miss Levinson had been speaking had been lost on him, he had been too busy admiring her courage to stand up to Evelyn's rudeness and it had been that element of the exchange which he had been paying attention to – something he is now bitterly regretting.

Lost in his thoughts he doesn't notice as the rein slips completely from where it had been loosely resting on the end of fingertips. The horse, not yet completely used to its surroundings, and certainly not at all familiar with the two people stood in front of it, takes the opportunity of freedom and tosses its head, moving the rein from anywhere near his grasp, and finding its hind legs as he reaches forward in an attempt to grab the flying leather, looms over Miss Levinson.

Her scream is piercing, which only sends the horse into a wilder frenzy. Robert doesn't think twice, as she curls her hands over her face and turns to face the other way, her back protruding towards the angry animal, he smothers her body against his – her spine jutting into his stomach – and pushes her hard into his own horse's empty stable. He hears her fall as he slams the door shut, and her funny hiccupping tears as her breathing slowly recovers to something rendering normal.

Turning back to the bolting horse, he is pleased to find that the commotion has summoned Lynch with his bucket of treats. Just his gait coming into the view of the wild female is enough for her to slow the mad circles she had been making around the paddock. Robert watches as she slows completely to a walk, and then a stop, as Lynch approaches her. Robert walks over, and gently runs his hand down the animal's neck.

"You are a cheeky girl, we can't have you doing that." He turns to the groom. "I apologise, something Miss Levinson said made me lose my concentration and the rein slipped." Lynch looks at him with half a raised eyebrow.

"In my experience, my lord, knowing how attentive you are with your horses, if Miss Levinson can make you forget what you are doing, then she might just be the perfect match for you, forgiving my impertinence of course." Robert turns in the direction Lynch had been looking – the stable where he had pushed Miss Levinson so unceremoniously not five minutes before.

She is stood up now, by the stable door, trying and failing to work out how she can escape back to the outside. Robert suppresses a laugh as she tries twisting the bolt the wrong way for the third time. He starts in her direction just as she manages to free herself. He picks up his pace, meeting her a short distance from the stable door.

"I am so sorry, for all of it. For forgetting you can't ride and then for letting go of her reins and then for pushing you in there. Are you alright? You're not hurt?"

"I'm fine Mr Crawley, quite fine. And like I said, you were very distracted that day, nobody can remember everything."

"No, but this was a fairly significant point Miss Levinson, and I should not have forgotten."

"Never mind all of that, might you introduce me to her properly, does she have a name?" Her lips quiver as she nods subtly in the direction of the now calm palfrey.

"Miss Levinson, you don't have to be brave. She almost crushed you and you have never ridden before. I am not going to ask you – "

"Mr Crawley, I am not ashamed of my inexperience with a horse, but neither can you or I be naïve. This is part of who you are, and very much a part of life here at Downton therefore I must at least try to embrace it. I will probably never be the best horsewoman in the world, but that should not deny me the opportunity of learning, is that not so?" He cannot think of a reasonable response, and does not have to, because she continues. "Besides, I have had this expensive riding habit made for me, and it ought to get some use."

"Miss Levinson, I really think – "

"Either you teach me Mr Crawley, or I will ask Mr Lynch." Like all the significant women in his life, it seems he has managed to find another one with a completely stubborn streak. She marches forward towards Mr Lynch without a backwards glance.

He admires the way she walks for half a minute, the swing of the hem of her navy habit, and the slightly too severe narrowing of the garment at her waist – surely that is painful? The veil that is attached to her hat flutters in the wind, and beneath it he can see strands of her hair coming loose from their confines. What he really studies is the curve of her neck as she tilts it one way and then the other, watching Lynch as he grooms the side of the horse – the skin is so very pale, in contrast to the dark hair and even darker outfit. Somehow, that paleness truly reminds him how fragile she is, how tiny, and in need of someone's care. Not just on a horse, although that was definitely going to be true, but also in life. One of her parents is determined to make her marry in a foreign country, and the other is slowly dying, but trying to conceal it from everyone – that if nothing else, was going to be something that Miss Levinson needed the love of true friends around her. Could he provide her with that? Will she let him?

"Wait, Miss Levinson!" She spins on the spot, her eyes bright and her smile wide as he half jogs towards her. She starts laughing as he comes to a stop in front of her, the sound fills him with that lightheaded feeling that he finds hard to describe – he loses himself in the bubble of the sound. "What is so funny, Miss Levinson?"

"Oh, nothing really, just that I knew you would decide in just a few short moments that you do in fact want to teach me to ride." Her eyebrows raise in a telling little smirk, and she quickly pivots on the spot, her skirt swishing convincingly and causing a breeze by his ankles, as she saunters around to the other side of the horse. He shakes his head, women really are difficult to understand. Today reminded him of the ball where they had finally first danced together – one minute she is angry and the next she is laughing and smiling.

He watches with pleasure as she starts conversing with Mr Lynch and he begins to show her how to touch the horse and feed her. Robert cannot help a vague sense of annoyance settle within him at the realisation that he would never trust either of his parents to have such a long conversation with her without thinking she was either being bullied or secretly laughed at. In fact, he thought the same would go for much of the upper classes. Mr Lynch showed more good breeding than any of them for engaging in proper conversation with her, making her laugh at one point as he tricks the horse into think he is offering food when he in fact wants to check her teeth. Robert doesn't doubt that the groom is doing it for him, and because this is his job, he has little choice in the matter. But he could do it so much more coldly if he wished, he could much more clinical, show Miss Levinson how to mount the horse, but he doesn't. He doesn't just teach her, he asks her about America and her family in between teaching her and Robert finds himself asking his own questions as Miss Levinson relaxes into the environment.

When it comes to Miss Levinson's turn to mount the horse, she looks towards him shyly, no doubt wondering if it will be him that lifts her to mount. Mr lynch equally looks towards him with a question in his expression.

"I think you should allow Mr Lynch to lift you into position Miss Levinson, he has done it far more frequently than I." Her face falls a little, but he cannot help but think this is the right decision, particularly for her first time mounting a horse. "Perhaps I might stand on the other side of the horse and help you position your legs around the pommels or stop you from becoming off balance?" She nods her head slowly, but he can see the fear is returning behind her eyes as she glances up wistfully at the horse.

Robert finds he is holding his own breath as Lynch hands him the reins to steady the horse before checking with Miss Levinson that he has her foot firmly enough in his hands to make her feel comfortable about him lifting her. She nods her assent, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Robert can hear, rather than see as Lynch counts to three and launches her into the air. Because she is not holding the reins (as she would if she was mounting properly) Robert lifts his free arm upwards, just in case Lynch has pushed her enough to make her topple. She comes to rest on the saddle behind the pommels and the shock of the movement does send her briefly tilting towards him. Her back comes to rest against his palm but she rights herself, a wide smile emerging on her face as she seems to realise she is in fact on the horse.

Robert just watches with a strange fluttering inside him – a real sense of gratification – as she takes in all of Lynch's instructions and some twenty minutes later gets the horse to steadily walk around the paddock area. After half an hour, Lynch moves to stand with him, rather than holding the reins of the horse. He lowers his voice a little as he speaks – his eyes still fixed on Miss Levinson in case of disasters.

"She really is very willing to learn Lord Downton, and she is strong and resilient, stubborn even, you're going to need that in your wife because Downton isn't easy, and neither is the world we live in." Robert is not oblivious to the obvious hint Lynch is dropping, and nor does he disagree with him. But nothing is that simple because it was not just about him, and Downton, his family are also involved, and their voices and opinions already had a habit of influencing a situation that in honesty has nothing to do with any of them.

* * *

Her toes prickle as she removes her boots, stretching back into the space that had been taken from them for too many hours. She still had not completely managed to break the boots in enough that they are comfortable despite riding every day for a week. She is still not completely confident on her horse, and today's trip into the village would not have been possible without the companionship of not only Mr Crawley but also Lynch – the groomsman Cora was becoming increasingly attached to. The had both rode along beside her, the latter instructed her on this and that regarding her riding, the other engaging her in intellectual conversation – they had sparred, like they often seem to, about this hero or another. She had also learnt a great deal more about the village that she might one day call home.

The village was small, and Cora had watched with dissatisfaction as the villagers had looked up at them on their horses and pulled small faces, or whispered things to their companions, even as Mr Crawley had dipped his hat and called out his greeting to a number of individuals. There had been some people that had smiled and greeted their future Earl with wide smiles, but there had not been many. It had come as no surprise to her then, that when she had suggested to Mr Crawley that they dismount so as not to appear so 'above the people of the village', her request had been met with a frown. Following on from this, it was even less of a surprise that he had initially turned his nose up at the idea of going into the little cottage hospital and speaking to a few of the patients, and then visiting some of the shops to buy the most basic of things – a few sweets, and some stamps.

She had watched as the patients and shopkeepers had warmed easily to Mr Crawley, and to a lesser extent to her (many had shown some shock at her accent). She had noticed also how Mr Crawley had seemed to settle easily into the position despite his obvious hesitance at first. He had even seemed surprised about some of the things the people had said, ideas they had for the village. They clearly wanted him to say something to his father, who she doesn't doubt heads almost all of their committees.

"I have put out the navy day dress for this afternoon Miss, if that suitable?" Cora's thoughts get shattered back from her memories of the morning to the present by Emma, who stands before her with the suggested navy day dress. Cora nods weakly, her thoughts turning drastically from the joys of the morning to the terror she feels about this afternoon.

Rosamund had a tea party with some of her friends planned, and Cora had been invited – not that 'invited' was probably the right term – her mother had forced her to join in, as had Lady Grantham who had smirked in the corner and suggested that it would be a nice idea for her to see 'how young English girls behave.' She shivers at the memory of Lady Grantham's stern gaze, and snipped mouth as she had spoken.

"You will be fine Miss, Lady Rosamund will look after you." Cora only nods meekly, Lady Rosamund was very nice, friendly even, but Cora had a feeling that surrounded by her other friends she was likely to forget the young girl that her younger brother has seemed to take to and she in turn would feel completely outnumbered by the young women who will have far more idea of the topics up for discussion than she will.

She changes slowly, trying to calm her nerves and instead embroil herself in the conversation Emma is trying to coax her into – about letters from home and funny stories about the staff downstairs. Cora listens, and she thinks she comments on some occasions, but she isn't sure exactly what is said, her mind still panicking over whether she will make any new friends or be able to bear the tea party without getting upset about the jibes that are bound to be hurtled at her.

Her hand shakes on the door knob, ten minutes later, as a loud burst of laughter erupts from the other side of the white polished door that has the immaculate gold trim to match the doors that lead into the music room. The nerves shiver from her hand up her arm and down her spine, but rather than making her feet freeze up, they seem to propel them forward. Her wrist snaps around and her foot inches into the gap make by the door as it moves on its hinges. She is met by silence.

Letting her eyes lift she immediately finds the bright red mop of hair that signifies Rosamund's presence, and the bright smile she had finally learnt existed on the young woman's face, that had been so absent in London. To her left sits a petite, seemingly nervous woman who has her hands crossed oddly in her lap, and is, Cora thinks, a good five years older than the rest of the group. On the arm chair is a young lady with hair as dark as a raven's and shrewd eyes that are already raking over her from her toes to her forehead – she isn't even subtle about it, seemingly peering over an imaginary pair of glasses. The young lady with her back to the door on the final chair Cora recognises as Marion Hardcastle, the young lady that had been presented with her this year and was, if Cora remembered correctly, already engaged to her childhood sweetheart John Darnley who was a neighbour of the Crawley's.

"Cora. You're here." She advances a little further into the room, avoiding the gaze of the shrewd young lady directly in front of her. Rosamund comes to stand beside her, taking her elbow and directing her to face Lady Marion. "You remember Lady Marion." Cora nods politely, but doesn't have a chance to say anything before Rosamund is directing her attention to the lady Cora had identified as being a little older than Rosamund. "This is Maud, she is married to Sir Anthony Strallan who is a neighbour of Papa's at Loxley." This lady offers her a wide smile, and a gentle nod of her head before her eyes waver, with Cora's in the direction of the last member of the group.

"You're exactly what Aunt Violet said you were. But then I shouldn't be surprised, Aunt Violet is so often right." Her mouth clamps shut as soon as she says it, her eyes taking on that narrow and judgemental look all over again. Cora feels her palms tickle, the sweat already beginning to seep from her pores as she tries to keep herself calm. After all, the confirmation that at least one of the party has it in for her is nothing new – she had expected that even before she had entered the room.

"Ignore her Cora, Susan has a habit of being ever so droll, rather like Mama, but then they are related so one can't be completely surprised." Rosamund flounces her shoulders and turns her back on Susan in a quick swish of her skirt, returning to her seat and gesturing for Cora to sit down beside her. "Since we are all here we ought to start pouring the tea."

She reaches forward to the table, and hands Cora the tea cup to help with the process. A silence has settled around the five of them and Cora is not surprised, they hardly seem like the ideal group of ladies for a dazzling conversation. Keeping her eyes mainly fixed on the second tea that Rosamund is pouring, Cora decides it might be best to try and break the silence.

"How exactly are you related to the Crawley's Susan?"

"My mother is one of Lady Grantham's sisters. I am her niece and Lord Downton and Lady Rosamund's cousin." The answer is sharp and to the point leaving Cora more than thankful that her eyes are fixed on the tea. The caramel liquid seems to be the only thing that binds the group as they hold them in their laps – one hand on the saucer, the other on the handle of the cup.

"The season was awfully good this year wasn't in Marion?" Rosamund has an energy that Cora had never noticed much in town, but she noticed it here, and most of the time it seemed to radiate from a desire to do the right thing, which is, in this instance, to be a good hostess and merge the differing personalities of her guests together. Marion starts a monologue about the various balls and concerts that everyone is able to contribute to, the conversation doesn't require much thought or even a great deal of knowledge but it is a sound topic that they can all converse about with ease – discussing various dresses and gentleman. The conversation is easily turned by Rosamund to Mr John Darnley, allowing Maud to speak about how happy she is that Marion is to become their neighbour when she marries in the spring. Rosamund agrees with the sentiment and discussion is turned towards weddings, and not just Marion's but other people that have got engaged this season.

The conversation is forced into a premature end when the door swings open once more, in dramatic fashion and even the face of young Susan twitches with alarm and dissatisfaction. Rosamund's ribs rise and fall very slowly as she attempts to retain her composure. Cora merely has her attention diverted to the most beautiful woman she has ever seen.

She stands tall, not very tall, but a little taller than Cora. Her hair is the golden colour so often depicted on paintings of angels surrounding the birth of Christ – it has been twisted and curled to perfection – the only thing missing from her look is the tiara that would make her a princess. What completes the woman's beauty is her eyes, just as Cora had the blue orbs that are not often found in people with such dark hair, this lady has the chocolate eyes that are so rarely bestowed on someone with blonde hair.

"You must be the American." Her chocolate eyes swivel to rest on Cora, her index finger pointing out slightly from where they are resting at her sides, as if trying to supress the urge to openly point. Her mouth curls over the word 'American' as though it suggests some kind of foul-mouthed monster. Cora's neck bristles, and her lips are drawn into a line – the enchanting chocolate eyes of the new addition to their party are no longer appealing, reminding her far more of the sloppy mud that often adorns her boots after a morning riding with Mr Crawley. Thoughts of his face calm her nerves and a flash of a line they had discussed only the other day from Pride and Prejudice forces her to find the backbone that carried Miss Elizabeth so successfully through life, after all, what did it matter how many inches of mud are stuck to the bottom of a dress so long as the person's heart was in the right place? She straightens her posture on the chair, and tilts her chin to look at the woman who is standing over her, she raises an eyebrow and says exactly what she thinks.

"Yes, I am, a fact that makes me nothing but proud." She sees Rosamund push her chin into her chest, trying her best to hide her amusement as her cheeks lift into a smile.

"Perhaps, but would you not say that the British are completely responsible for the greatness of America?"

"No organisation or nationality is responsible for the greatness of individuals. The kind of greatness that adds up to a successful country is the morals and integrity of the individual people who are citizens. No country is truly worth being a role model unless they can show a certain level of respect to people who visit their land that truly represents the alleged greatness of their country. Would you not agree?" The lady doesn't have an answer, her eyebrows rise in acknowledgement that the challenge has been met and understood and her attention is taken, as is Cora's, by Rosamund moving beside them.

"Perhaps we ought to make some introductions? Cora, this is Julie, she is married to James who is Papa's nephew – "

"And Robert's replacement if anything were to happen to him, isn't that right Rosamund?" Rosamund merely nods, but Cora isn't paying attention. Her mind is conjuring up snippets of information she had gathered from various people. Isabella had said something about James Crawley – something about him being like her husband (a bit of a rake). She is also sure Mr Crawley had mentioned his cousin at some point and said something similar.

Suddenly the woman before her makes sense. She is the perfect beauty and no doubt that is the reason she had fallen for (because no doubt James is a wonderful charmer) and married the man she now despises. Her whole life is all about making other people feel as bad as she feels. Her obsession with the fact James is the second in line to the Downton estate is made clear not a moment later when she turns the discussion to her son – Patrick. No doubt she wanted him to have the crown and the glory which in turn explains her aversion to the woman she has never met but whom may end up being the mother of the very child that knocks her own out of the running.

"So, I suppose you are going to try and ensnarl Robert?" Her lips pluck over the name in a manner that is very similar to how one might eat a strawberry – lips closing around the wholesome fruit and the gently parting it from its green head. "I wish you luck. He is not overly handsome, unless you like a man who is chubbier than he ought to be and seems to have a bit of a puppy dog face. Then there is his obsession with all things literary, I swear he has read more books than they have in the national library." She laughs at her own joke, only stopping when nobody else joins in. She turns to the mantelpiece, seemingly using it as her stage as she paces back and forth laughing about what she thinks Lord Downton is like. Rosamund tries to interrupt but Julie just talks right over her, the others say nothing – not even Susan. Cora lets her carry on, meeting her muddy eyes as often as Julie turns them to her. After all, the woman thinks she has the upper hand – all that knowledge about Mr Crawley. But as with all people who are craze driven by a desire of their own, they fail to notice what goes on around them, they fail to assess what other people know before they jump in. Cora knew, she knew all too well what this woman was about, and none of it was her fault, she just needed some help getting herself back on the right track.

"May I make a suggestion Mrs Crawley? You should start being honest about yourself, about what it is you are doing. The truth of the matter is you are wretchedly unhappy because your husband is not the man you thought he was. You react to this by taking your unhappiness out on everyone else – by being nasty." Cora pauses, holding her gaze as Julie's eyes widen and her face falls open in astonishment, she starts to shake her head, as if she might say something and then she just puts her arm across her stomach and stands, leaning heavily on the mantelpiece as she seemingly starts to sob. Cora rises, and closing the gap beings her hand to rest on Julie's shoulder, rubbing her hand up and down on the delicate lace. "All you are really doing is letting him win, you are stooping to his level when in reality you are a better woman than that. So much better. You need to start being yourself, for your son and for yourself. Live your own life despite the difficult situation. You have all the advantages of wealth and status that will make even this life something worthy and there are so few people that don't even have that."

Julie says nothing, her shoulders continue to shake, and with them Cora's hand. Slowly the tremors begin to subside and she takes a handkerchief that is offered to her and her chocolate eyes shine through from behind the tears.

"What would you say if I told you that I think I have forgotten who I am?"

"I would be completely unsurprised, it is what happens when you continue to lie to yourself." Julie only nods, wiping her eyes before turning back to the group and lowering herself slowly into the chair where she remains, sitting silently and listening for the remainder of the gathering.

Cora finds that her senses seem to return to her, as if in the middle she had lost all understanding of the room and what is going on around her and instead had become enthralled in her conversation with the lady who is clearly a victim to her husband. She is startled back to reality by the pressing of Rosamund's hand against her leg – the first true sign of support she has received from any member of the Crawley family aside from Lord Downton.


End file.
